The Invisible Husband of Frick Island by Colleen Oakley (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📗

“Then the paramedics showed up and we followed the ambulance here. We just ran out of the house. I don’t even have my purse.”

“I called 911 when I heard Mom scream,” Kelsey interjected.

“They took him back for a CT scan, said it was an ischemic, whatever that means, and then wheeled him into the OR to unblock the blood vessel or something or other. Kelsey’s been researching it on her phone.”

“Did they say how long he’ll be in surgery?”

“About two hours, so not much longer.”

“OK.” Anders nodded, even though all of this information did not give him the only piece they were all looking for—whether his stepdad was going to be alright. “Do you want me to go get your purse?”

“Would you? And maybe Dad’s flannel pajamas, too. He’s going to hate that flimsy gown.”

“Of course,” Anders said, grateful to be of use and have a task to focus his mind. “Text me if you think of anything else.”

—

The house was dark when Anders walked in the front door. And quiet. Too quiet.

He flipped light switches as he moved from room to room and then he padded up the stairs and poked his head in his old bedroom. His mom had always threatened to turn it into her craft room or a home gym the second he left for school, but it looked exactly the same. His eyes roamed the walls from the framed world map over his bed to the four movie posters tacked up in a row (All the President’s Men, Superman, The Paper, Spotlight) to the Chicago White Sox flag his dad had sent him one year, even though Anders didn’t even like baseball.

He moved on to his mom and stepdad’s room at the end of the hall. He spotted her purse on the dresser and Leonard’s flannel pajamas in the fourth drawer down, exactly where she’d said they’d be. On his drive home, his mom had texted that perhaps he should bring a change of regular clothes as well, so he picked out a pair of jeans and Leonard’s favorite sweatshirt, which announced will golf for beer, along with a couple pairs of boxers and socks. He laid everything on the bed and walked into the closet, looking for a bag to put everything in. Not spotting one on any of the shelves, he remembered that his mom kept suitcases in the attic.

Down came the foldout wooden stairs in the middle of the hall, and up Anders went, tugging on the string at the top, illuminating the bright light bulb. He spotted the cluster of suitcases immediately and picked a small roller-bag carry-on wedged between the plastic tub of Christmas ornaments on the left and a stack of two cardboard boxes on the right. The top box caught his eye, because it had his name in bold letters on top. He nearly turned away from it, assuming it was maybe old clothing that his mom hadn’t donated yet, but curiosity got the better of him and he paused, opening the top flap. And then he realized what it was—his mom’s collection of his childhood belongings. There was Elmer, his stuffed elephant that he refused to part with until at least third grade, maybe even longer. Scribbled artwork, stacks of handwritten stories, report cards, photos. He briefly rifled through it all, not remembering half of it, until he got to the middle of the box and a stack of VHS tapes, the top one with the words, in Leonard’s handwriting: Anders’s 4th Grade Talent Show.

He paused, half cringing and half laughing at the memory—not of the actual talent show but of telling Piper about it and her delighted reaction. He felt a pang in his chest. And then he pulled the tape out of the pile and closed the box.

After packing up his stepdad’s belongings, he walked downstairs to the den with the video, slid it into the VHS player on the built-in bookshelves, and turned on the TV. It took him a few minutes of fast-forwarding, but then there he was, a gangly nine-year-old in a backward baseball cap, standing stone-still and alone in the middle of the stage in his elementary school cafeteria. And then the first electronic strains of the Beastie Boys’ “Intergalactic” filled the air, followed by his mom’s voice. “Is the red button on, Leonard?” “Yep, we’re rolling,” his stepdad replied. “Shh! He’s starting!” his mom said, and likely nudged him, causing the camera to jerk before Leonard righted it, zooming in on Anders. Anders watched as his younger self moved his limbs, jerking and spinning and throwing himself to the ground with all the rhythm and awkwardness of a giraffe on roller skates. The laughter began about twenty seconds in, starting with surprised snickers until it built on itself, rippling through the crowd like a tidal wave. Anders squirmed for the boy onstage as if he were watching someone else, someone who had all the enthusiasm in the world, and none of the talent. He watched as the laughter reached young Anders’s ears. He saw the light go out of his eyes, the smile leave his face, and he suddenly remembered that moment so vividly. How had he forgotten the humiliation? But then, above the roar of laughter from the crowd, he heard something else—something he certainly hadn’t heard all those many years ago. It was his stepdad’s voice, loud and booming: “Woo-hoo! You’ve got this, Anders! Good job, son.”

—

Back at the hospital, Anders’s mom was sipping hot tea from the cafeteria and waiting some more. Leonard had made it out of surgery but hadn’t come to yet. The doctor let his mom see him briefly, and then said someone would let them know when he woke up. The three of them sat in silence, lost in their own thoughts, until at some point Anders nodded off.

He woke up to his sister shaking his arm, drool hanging from his mouth, a painful crick