Then when he was nine, Drew had gone swimming in a nearby lake with some friends, swallowed some water after being dunked, and had contracted an amoebic infection that had caused his temperature to spike at one hundred and six degrees.
Later his mother had told him that the doctors had prepared her and his dad for the worst. “They said you had lesions on your brain, and if you did come out of it you might never be able to talk or understand or take care of yourself again.”
Drew had stunned his parents and doctors by not only surviving, but coming out of the lethal sickness completely well. Aside from a nagging headache, he’d apparently suffered no ill effects at all from the infection. Until his father woke him up one night to his mother’s shrieking and water flooding across the floor of his room.
“The bathroom pipes burst,” his dad had told him, shouting to be heard over his mother. “Come and help your mom.”
Drew got out of bed and followed his dad, but something tugged at him and he changed direction. The pipes in his house were old, and as he went down the hall of his one-story home he ran his hand along the wall, tracing the path of the pipe he couldn’t see but could somehow feel.
“Andrew.”
“Hang on, Mom,” he called back in an absent tone. He moved his hand over the wall as he sought out the weak spot in the pipes, and then found it. He could feel through the wall the ragged edges of the split in the metal and how they curled out like a tattered flower. His dad was going to have to get the plumber to knock a hole in the wall to get at the pipe.
Unless . . .
The headache he’d had since returning from the hospital disappeared, and in its place came another feeling, a sizzling warmth that gathered behind his eyes. It traveled down into his shoulder and through his arm, moving like warm water, and seemed to pour through his hand into the wall. The water rushing across his feet began to slow, and then stopped.
“Thank God, your father finally got the water turned off. Oh, look at you,” his mother said behind him. “You’re soaked to the skin.”
His dad came up the stairs from the basement. “The shutoff valve is too rusted to turn, Bridget. I’d better call . . .” He stopped and looked at the floor. “What happened?”
Drew turned and smiled at his father. “I fixed it, Dad.”
Ron Riordan stared at his son before he burst out laughing. “And how did you do that, boy? With a prayer to the patron saint of piping?”
“No, with my headache.” Drew grimaced as he glanced down at his pajamas, which were sodden to the knees. “Can I change into my Transformers, Mom?”
Bridget looked at the wall and then sighed. “Sure, darling. But you bring those wet things into the laundry room.”
As Drew trotted back to his bedroom, he heard his mother say, “Broken pipes don’t go and mend themselves, Ronnie.”
“Something got stuck in it, I imagine. I’m calling Crowley. He’ll have something he can use to loosen up that geedee shutoff valve.”
The next day Mr. Crowley, the neighborhood plumber, came early to inspect the damage. Drew had to go to school, and didn’t give any more thought to the broken pipe until he found his father waiting for him outside the school gate.
“Dad.” Drew couldn’t remember his father ever coming to school to pick him up. Ron drove a bus, and didn’t get home until after six every night. “What are you doing here?”
“I took the day off, son. Boys.” Ron nodded to the two friends Drew usually walked home with. “Come on. Your mother’s waiting in the car for us.”
Drew wondered if he was in trouble, especially when he saw his mother’s face. She looked as if she’d been crying. “Did I do something wrong, Daddy?”
“No, son.” Ron rested a hand on his shoulder. “Your mother and me and you, we just need to have a little talk.”
His father drove them to the park where Drew sometimes played ball with his friends. The
Later his mother had told him that the doctors had prepared her and his dad for the worst. “They said you had lesions on your brain, and if you did come out of it you might never be able to talk or understand or take care of yourself again.”
Drew had stunned his parents and doctors by not only surviving, but coming out of the lethal sickness completely well. Aside from a nagging headache, he’d apparently suffered no ill effects at all from the infection. Until his father woke him up one night to his mother’s shrieking and water flooding across the floor of his room.
“The bathroom pipes burst,” his dad had told him, shouting to be heard over his mother. “Come and help your mom.”
Drew got out of bed and followed his dad, but something tugged at him and he changed direction. The pipes in his house were old, and as he went down the hall of his one-story home he ran his hand along the wall, tracing the path of the pipe he couldn’t see but could somehow feel.
“Andrew.”
“Hang on, Mom,” he called back in an absent tone. He moved his hand over the wall as he sought out the weak spot in the pipes, and then found it. He could feel through the wall the ragged edges of the split in the metal and how they curled out like a tattered flower. His dad was going to have to get the plumber to knock a hole in the wall to get at the pipe.
Unless . . .
The headache he’d had since returning from the hospital disappeared, and in its place came another feeling, a sizzling warmth that gathered behind his eyes. It traveled down into his shoulder and through his arm, moving like warm water, and seemed to pour through his hand into the wall. The water rushing across his feet began to slow, and then stopped.
“Thank God, your father finally got the water turned off. Oh, look at you,” his mother said behind him. “You’re soaked to the skin.”
His dad came up the stairs from the basement. “The shutoff valve is too rusted to turn, Bridget. I’d better call . . .” He stopped and looked at the floor. “What happened?”
Drew turned and smiled at his father. “I fixed it, Dad.”
Ron Riordan stared at his son before he burst out laughing. “And how did you do that, boy? With a prayer to the patron saint of piping?”
“No, with my headache.” Drew grimaced as he glanced down at his pajamas, which were sodden to the knees. “Can I change into my Transformers, Mom?”
Bridget looked at the wall and then sighed. “Sure, darling. But you bring those wet things into the laundry room.”
As Drew trotted back to his bedroom, he heard his mother say, “Broken pipes don’t go and mend themselves, Ronnie.”
“Something got stuck in it, I imagine. I’m calling Crowley. He’ll have something he can use to loosen up that geedee shutoff valve.”
The next day Mr. Crowley, the neighborhood plumber, came early to inspect the damage. Drew had to go to school, and didn’t give any more thought to the broken pipe until he found his father waiting for him outside the school gate.
“Dad.” Drew couldn’t remember his father ever coming to school to pick him up. Ron drove a bus, and didn’t get home until after six every night. “What are you doing here?”
“I took the day off, son. Boys.” Ron nodded to the two friends Drew usually walked home with. “Come on. Your mother’s waiting in the car for us.”
Drew wondered if he was in trouble, especially when he saw his mother’s face. She looked as if she’d been crying. “Did I do something wrong, Daddy?”
“No, son.” Ron rested a hand on his shoulder. “Your mother and me and you, we just need to have a little talk.”
His father drove them to the park where Drew sometimes played ball with his friends. The
Similar Books
