Mad Mouse

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Around seven P.M., Christine brings me a pillow.

Around seven fifteen, I fall asleep sideways on the couch.

Suddenly Christine is shaking my shoulder. It's morning. “She asked for you.”

“Whaa?” I forget where I am, why my breath stinks. Why is Christine waking me up? Are we even dating?

“Katie,” she says and shakes my shoulder some more.

My brain sputters, I blink. It's like the grumpy superintendent inside my skull shuffles over to the circuit breaker box, flicks the switches, lights me up for another day.

“Katie,” I mumble. I remember Katie.

“She asked for you.”

“She's awake?”

“Come on.”

Christine takes my hand and leads me into Katie's room.

Katie's eyes are open. There's a thin smile on her dry, cracked lips.

“Danny.”

“Hey.”

I reach for her hand. Christine nods. It's okay.

I take Katie's hand into mine and would squeeze it but I see they have an IV needle jabbed in near the thin tendons. So, I stroke her hand instead. I rub it gently, like I'm petting some newborn kitten.

There's a bunch of water blurring my eyes. I've got a lump in my throat the size of a meatball. I can't believe I'm seeing her emerald green eyes open and looking back at me.

“Danny.” She sighs, closes her eyes, and smiles like she's having a really good dream.

“Let her rest,” Christine suggests.

“Is she …?”

“Yeah, she is, Danny. She's going to be okay.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. I'll go grab you a chair. You can sit with her.”

She drags a vinyl chair into the room.

“Thanks.”

“She's on the mend,” she says. “But she needs to rest.”

About a half hour later, the doctor comes in and sees me sitting next to Katie's bed.

“How is she?” he asks.

“She, you know, recognized me.”

“So I heard.” He scribbles some stuff on the clipboard hanging off the foot of her bed. “That's very good news.”

The doctor leaves. I resume staring at Katie while she sleeps.

Every now and then, her green eyes flutter open, focus on me, and she smiles. Then, her eyelids flicker shut and she drifts off. I think a couple of those IV bags are pumping down pain medicine, the kind that makes you drowsy. Katie should definitely avoid operating any heavy machinery for the next few days.

My mind is spinning. I wish I'd had one of those dreams last night where all is revealed. A dream where the real Wheezer stands up like in that old TV game show To Tell the Truth. No such luck.

Maybe one of the other guys figured it out. Probably Olivia. She's the smartest. I check the cell phone clipped to my belt. No new messages. The others have probably all gone home with their police escorts. They're sitting somewhere right now like I am, with the word “Wheezer” running around their heads like a hopped-up hamster.

“Wheezer.” I whisper it. “Wheezy, Wheezer, Weasel.”

It's becoming a chant, like saying the rosary, which is something I forget how to do but I remember it involved a lot of mumbling of the same words over and over.

“Wheezer, wiener, weenie, wienerschnitzel, weenie, weasel, wheezy, wheezer …”

“Danny?”

Katie. I must've been mumbling louder than I thought.

“Hey.” I push myself out of the chair and move up to her pillow. I slide a sweaty strand of red hair out of her eyes.

“Don't,” she says.

“Sorry.” I take my hand off her hair. Guess her forehead hurts.

“Don't.”

I'm not doing anything.

“Don't do what?”

“Don't tease Weese.”

Her eyes close. She drifts back to sleep.

I remember.

Weese.

“Wheezer” is George Weese.