False Memory

paged desultorily through an ancient issue of Time.
    This was a private rather than semiprivate room. A single bed with yellow-and-green-checked spread. One blond, wood-grain Formica nightstand, a small matching dresser. Off-white walls, burnt-orange drapes, bile-green carpet. When they went to Hell, sinful interior designers were assigned to quarters like this for eternity.
    The attached bath featured a shower stall as cramped as a phone booth. A red label—TEMPERED GLASS—was fixed to a corner of the mirror above the sink: If broken, it would not produce the sharp shards required to slash one’s wrists.
    Although the room was humble, it was costly, because the care given by the staff at New Life was of a far higher quality than their furniture. Skeet’s health insurance didn’t include I-was-stupid-and-self-destructive-and-now-I-need-to-have-a-full-brain-flush coverage, so Dusty had already written a check for four weeks of room and board, and he had signed a commitment to pay for the services of therapists, physicians, counselors, and nurses as needed.
    As this was Skeet’s third course of rehabilitation—and his second at New Life—Dusty was beginning to think that to have any hope of success, what he needed were not psychologists, physicians, and therapists—but a wizard, a warlock, a witch, and a wishing well.
    Skeet was likely to be at New Life for a minimum of three weeks. Perhaps six. Because of his suicide attempt, a series of nurses would be with him around the clock for at least three days.
    Even with painting contracts lined up and with Martie’s deal to design a new Lord of the Rings game, they were not going to be able to afford a long Hawaiian vacation this year. Instead, they could put a few tiki lanterns in the backyard, wear aloha shirts, crank up a Don Ho CD, and have a canned-ham luau. That would be fun, too. Any time spent with Martie was fun, whether the backdrop was Waimea Bay or the painted board fence at the end of their flower garden.
    As Dusty sat on the edge of the bed, Skeet dropped the issue of Time that he’d been reading. “This magazine sucks since they stopped running nudes.” When Dusty didn’t respond, Skeet said, “Hey, that was just a joke, bro, not the drugs talking. I’m not particularly high anymore.”
    “You were funnier when you were.”
    “Yeah. But after the flight goes down, it’s hard to be funny in the wreckage.” His voice wobbled like a spinning top losing momentum.
    The rataplan of rain on the roof was usually soothing. Now it was depressing, a chilling reminder of all the dreams and drug-soaked years washed down the drain.
    Skeet pressed pale, wrinkled fingertips to his eyelids. “Saw my eyes in the bathroom mirror. Like someone hocked wads of phlegm in a couple dirty ashtrays. Man, that’s how they feel, too.”
    “Anything particular you’d like besides your gear? Some new magazines, books, a radio?”
    “Nah. For a few days, I’ll be sleeping a lot.” He stared at his fingertips, as if he thought part of his eye might have stuck to them. “I appreciate this, Dusty. I’m not worth it, but I do appreciate it. And I’ll pay you back somehow.”
    “Forget it.”
    “No. I want to.” He slowly melted down into the chair, as though he were a wax candle in the shape of a man. “It’s important to me.
    Maybe I’ll win the lottery or something big. You know? It could happen.”
    “It could,” Dusty agreed, because although he didn’t believe in the lottery, he did believe in miracles.
    The first-shift nurse arrived, a young Asian American named Tom Wong, whose air of relaxed competence and boyish smile gave Dusty confidence that he was putting his brother in good hands.
    The name on the patient—ID sheet was Holden Caulfield Jr., but when Tom read it aloud, Skeet was roused from his lethargy. “Skeet!” he said ferociously, sitting up straighter in his chair, clenching his fists. “That’s my name. Skeet and nothing but Skeet. Don’t you ever call me Holden. Don’t you ever How can I be Holden junior when my phony shit of a father isn’t even Holden senior? Who I should be is Sam Farner Jr. Don’t you call me that, either! You call me anything but Skeet, then I’ll strip naked, set my hair on fire, and throw myself through that freaking window. Okay? You understand? Is that what you want, me taking a flaming-naked suicide leap into that pretty little garden of yours?”
    Smiling, shaking his head, Tom Wong said, “Not on my shift, Skeet. The flaming hair would be an amazing