Read Online In the Middle of the Night by Robert Cormier - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Cormier
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existence.
Finally, Ellie, the white-haired nurse, came with a wheelchair. “Hop in,” she said. “You’re getting a free ride.”
John Paul resisted. “I can walk,” he said. “I feel fine …”
“A rule of the hospital,” Ellie said, leading him to the wheelchair. “Everybody gets a ride to the front door.”
But as they began their journey down the corridor, they headed away from the bank of elevators leading to the first floor and the main entrance.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
He saw the uncertainty on his parents’ faces, sawEllie’s grim determination. “We’re going down the service elevator. To the back of the hospital. It’ll be quicker this way.”
“Why quicker?” he asked, suddenly alert, realizing that his parents had been more than concerned this morning. They’d been worried, tense, touching him, dressing him to cover their nervousness.
Nobody spoke.
The elevator doors opened, and they entered. They descended in silence. John Paul didn’t ask any more questions. He didn’t want to know the answers. He thought he knew, however, why they were avoiding the front of the hospital. He remembered the woman who had yelled accusations at him a few nights ago. Maybe she was waiting for him in the front of the building, with others like herself who blamed him for what happened at the theater.
The doors opened smoothly, silently. John Paul saw a police officer standing at the rear exit of the hospital. He beckoned to them, an old cop with a ruddy complexion, a grandfatherly kind of man. “The taxi is waiting,” he said. “Hurry, before they find out what’s happening.”
John Paul was wheeled to the doorway. His father helped him up from the wheelchair, although he needed no help. Ellie kissed him briefly on the cheek. “God be with you,” she said. “Poor boy …”
Through the doors and across the sidewalk and into the opened door of the taxi, his mother and father hurrying him inside. The taxi smelled of cigarette smoke. The driver, hunched over the wheel, did not look at them. “Hold on,” he muttered as the taxi shot away with squealingtires, bursts of foul exhaust obliterating the smell of smoke.
As they turned the corner leading away from the hospital, John Paul looked out the rear window. A small crowd had gathered at the hospital’s front entrance, holding up signs and placards, like pickets at the scene of a strike. He could not read the crudely scrawled words from this distance. As he watched, the crowd began to scatter across the lawn, heading for the rear entrance which the taxi had left only moments before. They halted in their tracks, as if realizing they had been tricked. John Paul saw fists raised in anger, faces raw with rage.
“They think I’m guilty,” he said, knowing that the anger and rage were for him.
“You are not,” his mother said, pulling him to her.
But I must be, he thought miserably, as the taxi roared through the streets toward home.
I
n the next few days, John Paul wondered whether he had come home too soon. He was not sure. He had been eager to leave the hospital, to have his bandages removed, to get away from the deadly routine of blood tests, blood pressure readings and a thermometer stuck under his tongue three or four times a day. The food always looked delicious on the plate but was tasteless in his mouth. The open door to his room had made him nervous, especially after that woman had invaded it, yelling accusations at him.
But, once at home, he was restless, roaming the rooms like an alien in a place that had always been safe. Not that he had ever felt danger anywhere, either at home or on the streets or at Wickburg Regional. A different kind of safety was now involved. He groped for the word, searching through his English and French vocabulary, and found it at last—“security,” although he pronounced it aloud theFrench way: “
sécurité
.” With the proper accents in place in his mind.
But
Finally, Ellie, the white-haired nurse, came with a wheelchair. “Hop in,” she said. “You’re getting a free ride.”
John Paul resisted. “I can walk,” he said. “I feel fine …”
“A rule of the hospital,” Ellie said, leading him to the wheelchair. “Everybody gets a ride to the front door.”
But as they began their journey down the corridor, they headed away from the bank of elevators leading to the first floor and the main entrance.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
He saw the uncertainty on his parents’ faces, sawEllie’s grim determination. “We’re going down the service elevator. To the back of the hospital. It’ll be quicker this way.”
“Why quicker?” he asked, suddenly alert, realizing that his parents had been more than concerned this morning. They’d been worried, tense, touching him, dressing him to cover their nervousness.
Nobody spoke.
The elevator doors opened, and they entered. They descended in silence. John Paul didn’t ask any more questions. He didn’t want to know the answers. He thought he knew, however, why they were avoiding the front of the hospital. He remembered the woman who had yelled accusations at him a few nights ago. Maybe she was waiting for him in the front of the building, with others like herself who blamed him for what happened at the theater.
The doors opened smoothly, silently. John Paul saw a police officer standing at the rear exit of the hospital. He beckoned to them, an old cop with a ruddy complexion, a grandfatherly kind of man. “The taxi is waiting,” he said. “Hurry, before they find out what’s happening.”
John Paul was wheeled to the doorway. His father helped him up from the wheelchair, although he needed no help. Ellie kissed him briefly on the cheek. “God be with you,” she said. “Poor boy …”
Through the doors and across the sidewalk and into the opened door of the taxi, his mother and father hurrying him inside. The taxi smelled of cigarette smoke. The driver, hunched over the wheel, did not look at them. “Hold on,” he muttered as the taxi shot away with squealingtires, bursts of foul exhaust obliterating the smell of smoke.
As they turned the corner leading away from the hospital, John Paul looked out the rear window. A small crowd had gathered at the hospital’s front entrance, holding up signs and placards, like pickets at the scene of a strike. He could not read the crudely scrawled words from this distance. As he watched, the crowd began to scatter across the lawn, heading for the rear entrance which the taxi had left only moments before. They halted in their tracks, as if realizing they had been tricked. John Paul saw fists raised in anger, faces raw with rage.
“They think I’m guilty,” he said, knowing that the anger and rage were for him.
“You are not,” his mother said, pulling him to her.
But I must be, he thought miserably, as the taxi roared through the streets toward home.
I
n the next few days, John Paul wondered whether he had come home too soon. He was not sure. He had been eager to leave the hospital, to have his bandages removed, to get away from the deadly routine of blood tests, blood pressure readings and a thermometer stuck under his tongue three or four times a day. The food always looked delicious on the plate but was tasteless in his mouth. The open door to his room had made him nervous, especially after that woman had invaded it, yelling accusations at him.
But, once at home, he was restless, roaming the rooms like an alien in a place that had always been safe. Not that he had ever felt danger anywhere, either at home or on the streets or at Wickburg Regional. A different kind of safety was now involved. He groped for the word, searching through his English and French vocabulary, and found it at last—“security,” although he pronounced it aloud theFrench way: “
sécurité
.” With the proper accents in place in his mind.
But
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