The World You Grew Up In

Van woke up and was bombarded by the sight of his mother, holding his cheeks and kissing his face, tears streaming from her ducts down to his chin. He was wearing a hospital gown and noticed his hands were much bigger than he remembered. He was laid up in a hospital bed but could not move a muscle. He couldn't remember much, only that the woman all over him was his mother. She'd gotten old, her hair graying and the wrinkles setting in.

There was a young man in the corner of the room, tall, lanky, and awkward, but the spitting image of his father, if a bit younger and scrawnier.

"Mom, let him wake up for a minute," he said. "Van's been through enough without needing you smothering him to death."

"Daniel!" She snapped. "What a horrible thing to say,"

Danny? Van thought. He's so old.

"Sorry, sorry. It’s just that he's up and, well, give him some room to breathe. He's probably confused."

"Damn right, I'm confused," Van replied. He still couldn't move much, but he gripped his fingers around the support bumpers of the hospital bed.

"Van, watch your language."

"Ma, He's twenty-five."

Twenty-five, he thought, and the room went dark. A few minutes passed and he was awake again; this time his line of sight was filled with doctors and nurses, Danny in the back consoling their mother, who was still crying, now muttering something about this being her fault. The doctor shined a small flashlight into Van's eyes and nodded with approval.

"Van, my name is Doctor Richards. Do you know where you are?" 

"I'm in a hospital, and I'm twenty-five years old, but that doesn't make any sense." 

"You were in an accident. You've been in a coma for the last eleven years. It's the year 2011."

Van wanted to faint again, but instead, a nurse helped him sit up. They brought him some water, and he felt a strange sensation in his crotch and saw a small bag on the side of the bed filled with his urine. It was all too much to handle, and this only made his mother cry even more. Eleven years. It seemed like a dream. An impossibility, and yet he could not even muster the strength to pinch himself. But he knew it was true; he could feel the heart pounding in his chest, the hairs of his arms swept back by the air conditioning vent. His face had some stubble on it, which he'd never been able to grow before, back when he was fourteen. Eleven years gone. Stolen, but no thief to apprehend.

“Can I have a minute with my family?”

“Of course,” the doctor answered, shuffling his team out the door and into the hallway, leaving behind the much older versions of his mother and youngest brother. He waited to speak, unsure what to ask first. Eleven years. His entire adolescence was gone.

“Where’s Dad? Is he on call?” Van asked. His son's been asleep for eleven years, and he’d rather be hanging out at the station house. Van remembered riding in the engine, wanting to be a firefighter like his father, but one too many missed ballgames made him hate the bastard, who put his exciting life and career ahead of his family.

His mother started crying again, leaning into Danny’s shoulder, and Danny consoling her with an arm hug across his lanky frame.

“Dad’s dead," Danny answered. “After you-” he stammered. “There was a terrorist attack.”

Van couldn’t hear the rest; instead, his focus shifted to a few cooing pigeons outside his window. He wanted to get up and scatter them; he always hated the plump, annoying birds. His father liked them and insisted always on throwing them stale bread at the park, like a lonely old lady. He sent them away; he was tired, he told them. He sent them away without looking at them, just at the birds. He remembered telling his father he hated him. He wondered if that was the last memory his father had of him.

It was a few months before Van left the hospital. Physical therapy was difficult for him, and he swayed left to right when he walked, but he was walking. Atrophy was painful, almost too painful to bear, but it was the pinch he wanted, and he knew with all certainty that he was awake. The therapist helped, or at least Van thought it was helpful. It was difficult for him to know; there was always something to do. Another exercise, another test, more scans, and labs. Life had suddenly become busy—too busy to stop and think. Maybe that was the point.

Danny picked him up and brought him a set of his father’s old clothes. They fit well enough. They rode the subway up to the Bronx. Manhattan was more or less the same. New buildings, new stores, but the people were the same. There was no time to lollygag at the subway platform; people would just brush by you or, if you were too in the way, even push you through the doors before they sealed. Paul O’Neil was no longer the right fielder for the Yankees; Van was sad to find out. Nick Swisher played there, though he had no idea who that was and doubted he was better than O’Neil. The Captain was still there, and that softened the blow for Van. Rivera was there, too. And Posada, though he never liked Posada because his father told him instead of batting gloves, he’d piss on his hands for a better grip. If he ever met Paul O’Neil, he’d hug him. Jorge Posada would get a polite nod.

“Now listen, when we get home, it’s going to be a little weird," Danny mentioned as they stood in the subway car.

“This whole thing is weird, Danny," Van replied.

"Well, then be prepared for a bit more. Mom’s not all right. In the head. I think the combination of you and Dad sent her over a bit. She’s going to want you to take off your shoes before coming in the door so she can check for drugs. She’ll sniff you for it, too. It’s bizarre, but you get used to it.”

Van didn’t know what to do with that information. This was the same woman who encouraged him to stay out until the street lights were on, to play hooky and see a ball game with his friend Billy for his birthday. Van thought of an episode of South Park, where the boys find their evil counterparts with Goatees. Hella weird.

They got to the front door of their Brownstone, once their father’s pride and joy, passed down from his father’s father, who saved his entire life to buy the brand new property before the paint had even dried inside. This was a house for three families, and through various points of its existence, it was full of life, family, and love, but now stood derelict, a crumbling monument to a family in decline. If families were in a constant state of rise and fall in America, Van opened the door, hoping he represented a much-needed upswing for the Ripleys.

“Hey, Mom,” he greeted as the door swung open and his mother hugged her able-bodied boy for the first time in eleven years. Though it had been so long, Van was happy to know that such things were second nature to him.

“Come in, come in,” she prodded. “But take off your shoes first; you can’t be too careful.” She sniffed around him. “I don’t smell any drugs. Good.”

Van was puzzled, assuming that Danny was messing with him. He started to take off his shoes, and his mother grabbed the first, inspecting all around it like she was a police dog. The second shoe got the same treatment, and once the interrogation of his Nikes was complete, her jovial nature returned.

“My Van," she cried. “My baby boy. I dreamed this day would come. Even when they told me it wouldn’t, I knew. Your father would have been so happy to see you awake. He was so worried. You weren’t getting better, and the money was tight. Daniel can tell you about that. And then your father... Well, what’s important is that it got us the money to keep you going. Thank God. Thank you, God. Thank you.”

Tears of joy were pouring out of her face, and Van hugged her tight again, welling up himself. If she hadn’t had such hope, he’d be a corpse. But what this had done to her filled Van with a deep sense of dread.

“We just need Mark, and then we’ll all be together again. Wouldn’t that be lovely?” she pleaded.

"Yes," Van answered, removing his embrace. “Where is Mark?”

A moment passed, and she chipped up. “Oh, let me go get you some lemonade. It’s got Splenda in it, so you won’t get fat. I saw it on the Today Show.” She puttered off to the kitchen as if he’d never asked about Mark.

"Afghanistan," Danny replied, sitting on the couch, already engrossed in a videogame. He could have said Mars; at least Van knew where Mars was. He took a seat on the couch next to Danny. The graphics on the game were so clean. He remembered their Super Nintendo. He wanted a 64, but this was almost like watching a movie.

“Why’s he there? I don’t even know where that is.” On the couch next to them were half-eaten bags of chips and a glass bong that smelled like the homeless men who lived in the park. He knew what it was and what it was for and was even more puzzled at the shoe search from before. Danny grabbed the glass paraphernalia and lit the bottom with a lighter, inhaling the smoke and placing the bong back on the couch in clear view of everything.

Van gave Danny a confused look.

“She thinks it’s only ever in your shoes," Danny whispered. “I told you she was a little weird. It’s okay, I promise. I’ve been taking good care of her since Mark left.”

“Your brother joined the Navy after he graduated high school," his mother replied from the kitchen. “He was so angry back then. So so angry," she came back in the living room with a pitcher of lemonade. “I never could tell at what. He used to stay up at night re-watching President Bush give his speech at ground zero. ‘I can hear you,’ he always used to say. ’ Isn’t that nice? A mother shouldn’t have to worry as much as I do, but boys will be boys.” She poured a few glasses and handed them to the boys.

Mark was twelve the other day. He’d lost a tooth and waved it around like he’d found buried treasure. He was afraid of heights. He was afraid of everything. They took a trip to Coney Island and cried, baby. Mark couldn’t even ride the Cyclone, but now he was fighting Afghans, whoever they were. He teased his brother so much as a kid. Mark liked the Mets, so Van had to tell him how much Piazza sucked. “He’s probably a Homo," Van would say. “Never won a world series while you were alive. I was barely alive when they won last.”

“They’re good this year, Van,” he’d cry, and Van would go on to brag about all the rings his Yankees had, their history, and his love for the boys in the pinstripes. Van learned that the Mets were good that year. But not good enough. The Yankees won the first-ever Subway Series, but that gave him no happiness. He’d trade every pennant and all twenty-seven world championships to have his younger brother there now.

They ate dinner together, chicken parmesan, Van’s favorite. His mother was never Betty Crocker, but chicken, cheese, and marinara on spaghetti was hard to mess up. Van slurped the noodles off his fork, which made his mother cry again.

“You’re just like you were, Van. You’re all grown up, but you’re still my little boy.”

Van would never slurp his pasta again. From that day forward and every day after until he went to sleep again for the last time. His brother didn’t eat it; he was always a picky eater.

“Ma, did you leave a plain cutlet for me? You know I hate marinara.”

“I’m so sorry, my love. I forgot. All this excitement has me slipping up.”

“It’s fine; I’ll grab a bite to eat at Mulligan’s. It was going to be a surprise for Van, but I need to eat something tonight.”

“Don’t take him to that bar, Daniel. It’s bad enough you spend so much time there.”

“He’s Twenty-Five, Ma. He deserves his first beer. I think he’s earned it, right, Van?”

Even with the therapy and the support group, it was still so shocking that he was twenty-five years old. He didn’t have a license. Though most people in New York didn’t, he never had the chance, and that was the part that killed him inside. He tried a beer once; his father gave him a sip. He thought it tasted like soap and said he’d never like it. But Danny was right. Van felt he’d earned at least one.

“It’ll be nice to see people who aren’t trying to poke me with needles," Van added.

“They might,” his mother shouted back. “They could poke and prod you and get you addicted to crack, smack, or whatever they call it. Daniel, you better look out for him. I can’t let anything happen to my baby boy again.”

They finished eating, and as he tried to leave, Van felt his mother latch back on to him like a leech. He felt bad for thinking of her like that. She was his mother. Always and forever. She gave him life, twice at this point. But though he’d been home only a day, the doting and the worrying were already grating his nerves. Danny did not need to look out for him. Danny was his baby brother. The last time he saw Danny, he was picking boogers out of his nose, and Mark was daring him to eat them, which the little retard did. She let go of him, but he hugged her once more before leaving with Danny rolling his eyes. She was still and always would be his mother. He’d try to keep remembering that.

Mulligan’s was an Irish bar around the corner. It was also his father’s favorite bar and a local favorite with all the firefighters who lived nearby. His father worked in Manhattan, but the neighborhood had men from trucks all across the city. The men from the nearby station came to Mulligan's, and it was known far and wide as a haven for men who played with matches for a living.

Danny led Van into the dive, and they were greeted by a loud and loving “Surprise!” which was made even more surprising by the fact that Van did not recognize anyone yelling at him at first. A few of the older men looked like his father’s friends, but the years had not been kind. The younger men resembled the kids from school and his football team, but they lost the boyish spirit that had bound them together. He didn’t recognize any of the women, but that was fine; he’d do his best to know them.

Van was swarmed by the mob of visitors. “Do you remember me?” they asked. “I used to coach you in baseball.” “We sat together at lunch.” “Mark was my best friend in sixth grade.” And he remembered them all. He’d seen them all the other day. It was him who people had seemed to forget. Until Danny reached out to them, Van Ripley was dead, or maybe didn’t even exist at all.

The party went on, and they all parted like the Red Sea, guiding him to the bar. A woman waited to take his order. She was blonde and beautiful and familiar, though he couldn’t place it.

“What’ll it be, handsome?” She asked, and Van took out his wallet and put the five-dollar bill that had been there for over a decade on the pine.

“Whatever this will get me,” and she laughed.

“You drink for free tonight, but don’t get used to it. She turned around and bent down to grab a glass, and Van noticed her ass, trying not to, but the last time he’d seen a woman, he was still going through puberty.

“And don’t get used to that either,” she snapped, then gave him a wink. She filled the mug with beer, and it was gold and foamy, and the glass was sweating, and he felt like he was the glass too. He took the glass from her, and his fingertips touched hers, and he drank quickly before he had a chance to say something stupid. It still tasted like soap, and he made a face, and everyone laughed. She laughed, and that made Van blush, which made her laugh softer but longer.

The night consisted of small sips of his beer, looks over at the bar while the bartender wasn’t looking, and stories from those around him, filling him in on the decade-plus that he missed. They went over movies and television and two wars and a financial crisis. He felt like they were confessing to him, like they needed to justify the ways they spent their time while he was away.

“I was in real estate," one told him. “Until 2008. That really fucked me up. I’m a substitute teacher now.”

“I went to NYU to study film," another said. “I’m in a show off-broadway. Well, actually it’s in Brooklyn. But it’s something. You should come down and see it.”

Tom O’Keefe came up to him. His father’s best friend at their firehouse. He’d gotten old. Much older than he should’ve been. He dragged around a tank of air, and tubes hung around his ears up to his nose. He spoke in soft whispers in between wheezes. He said he was dying. Lung Cancer. He said he and a few other guys who survived were all sick. He hugged Van, but his grip was weak, and Van held him like a glass vase, worried he’d crack Tom if he wasn’t delicate. The old man sensed this and hung his head. He was the biggest, strongest man in the house and now withered like a dying rose.

“I don’t have much time,” he whispered. “I just wanted to come and see you all grown up. Take care of your mother, Van. Your father would want that.”

Then, the old man left, but no one moved for him, as if they couldn’t see him, and soon after the space he once occupied was taken and Van became unsure if he was ever there at all or if he made the encounter up.

Danny came up to him and slung his arm around Van’s shoulder. He smelled like their grandpa and his words slurred. He held his cellphone out, and Van couldn’t get over how small they’d gotten. That one could surf the internet, and that mind-blowing achievement was undercut the moment Danny said Mark was on the phone. He took the flat piece of metal and plastic and held the touchscreen up to his ear. He worried his ear would hang up the call, but he guessed they’d thought of such things. It was early morning by Mark, and he didn’t have much time to talk.

“Mornin’ sleeping beauty,” Mark joked.

“Morning to you, Skidmark.”

“I haven’t heard that in so long.”

“I know. Dad hated when I called you that. When are you coming home?”

“We just got here a few weeks ago. I can’t talk about what I’ve got going on, but I won’t be gone too long. I’ll let you know when I’m coming back.”

“I can’t wait.”

“I’ve been waiting a long time. Van-” he trailed off. “It’s been tough. I mean, even all this. I- I’m really glad you’re back.”

“Me too, man.” He had no idea how much, Van thought. He pressed the screen, and buttons lit up, and he tapped the red hang-up button and handed the phone back to Danny, who put his arm back around his brother’s shoulder.

"Vanny," Danny said. “I haven’t called you that since I was five. That’s even longer than you were asleep. Well, Vanny. You and I ought to get a place. Move to Manhattan. Mom’s been so on my case, but now that you’re back, we can live together. Maybe even Mark can come back, too. He won’t. He never stays long. He’s changed. He says he’s not angry anymore. But I see it. Maybe not angry, but so sad. He doesn’t ever come drink with me. Says he can’t. He told me once, ‘Drinking brings out the worst in me,’ he said.” Danny hugged him, almost hanging off his older brother, and Van held him and helped him get his balance back.

“But I can’t actually go, Vanny. I’m all that Mom has left. Isn’t that sad? A crazy old woman and a man child living in a crumbling old building. But now you’re back. It’ll be just like it was, right? And maybe because you’re back, Mark can stick around. And then Dad might,” but he stopped himself and grew a look of deep shame. “I missed you so much, Vanny.”

Van hugged his brother, and Danny fell into his arms. Danny was the baby. Mom always treated him like he was made of glass and still did by the look of things. If Mark was being a dick, Van came to the rescue. Typical middle child behavior. But what’s a middle child without his older brother? Van wondered. He let go of Danny, and the drunk young man had forgotten that he was upset at all.

Danny stood on his own two feet and whispered in Van’s ear. “That bartender is one hot piece of ass. You know who she is?” Van shook his head. “Shannon Doherty.” Van’s eyes went wide. “She had a little work done. Nose job. Tit job. But it’s her. She got real excited when I told her you woke up.”

Shannon Doherty was sixteen when Van remembered her. She was a dating senior, and he was a freshman, and she lived down the street. He thought he was coy about his crush, but when he went over to talk to her, she teased him about how obvious he’d been. He laughed along, and she touched his shoulder, and they talked the rest of the night. Slowly, but surely, the well-wishers and the curious onlookers took their leave. The friends he had as a boy were no longer friends with each other, and it was easy for their group to split back up in the night. His father’s friends left early; late nights were no longer their forte. One by one, the bar emptied until it was just the two of them—a drunken Danny and the two barflies who looked like gargoyles at the other end of the bar.

“I need to close up,” she said, and Van took the hint and got up to leave. She grabbed his hand. “You were fourteen. Did you ever... I mean, you probably had kissed a girl then, right? He nodded his head but tried to keep a poker face. Darleen Fitzsimmons let him get to second base, but there wasn’t anything under her bra except a few wadded-up napkins. He’d had half a beer, and he thought he was drunk, but he wasn’t. Just a fourteen-year-old boy in a man’s body.

“I live down the street. I rent my own place. You could…” and she waited for him to fill in the blanks.

“Danny” was all he could get out, and she told him to leave him here. “He knows his way out; it’s okay.” She took him by the hand and led him out the door, saying goodnight to the barflies and Danny, who dragged their feet down the block the other way.

They got to her place, and she slid the key into her lock, turned the knob, and opened the door. He turned on the nearest light switch, and she told him to wait there a moment. A few minutes passed, and she told him to come to the bedroom, and she stood there, wearing a sheer pink negligee and sexy underwear. She took him by the hand, and her face got close to his.

“I was really happy to hear you’d woken up. I know it must be so scary. Like you’re in a whole new world. I wanted to give you something. Something you’d never forget.”

He didn’t say anything but knew enough to kiss her. He didn’t take long after that, but she made no mention of it. He was soon ready to go again, and she was kind to him, showing him the ropes and letting him take over when he was ready. He stayed over that night, afraid to fall asleep, worrying now that this was a dream and he’d wake up back in the hospital, or worse, he’d wake up a fourteen-year-old boy again. He remembered laying awake at night, thinking about this moment. There was a monument of used tissues dedicated to Shannon Doherty in his room, and now he was with her, and it defied any expectation. For a moment, all the pain was gone. He closed his eyes and did not worry anymore.

Van got his GED a few months later. He’d asked Danny about his offer a few times, but Danny always said. “I can’t leave Mom.” Van understood and felt bad for leaving her, but she cried out, telling him that she’d miss him, but he had to go grow up.

“Eleven years I didn’t think I’d see you again. I could wait for a million more, my darling boy.”

Shannon and he were fine. She wasn’t the dating kind, she told him, and she said she did not want to tie him down. There was too much to do, too much to see. He had an iPhone now and watched the Yankees win the 2009 World Series on YouTube. They were good, but he knew his teams were better. Paul O’Neil, the warrior, was on the pre-game show now. He could do it all.

Van was going to go to Community College the next fall. He visited ground zero not long after his night with Shannon. And his father’s firehouse. There was a nice memorial to the guys on the truck. Pete Glavine gave him a hotdog the last time Van had visited. His name was next to his father’s on the wall. Tom O’Keefe died not long after, though the funeral was sparse. Those he loved had gone before him, it seemed. He got too sick to marry, but they put his name on that wall.

He spent much of his free time with the support group. About a dozen other ‘cavemen’ they called themselves, men and women who woke up in the future, missing days, months, and years of their lives. His was the longest blackout by far. They did not pity him though; instead, they joked with him, which he preferred. All but one, another man who was gone for three years, who only went by Rick.

“I woke up with no purpose, you see. I'd trained my whole life for a war with the Soviets. Every single day, they preached readiness. ‘Gotta be prepared; you gotta know your job and the jobs of those around you. We can't let them take it all away from us.’ And when I woke up, there was no more Soviet Union. No more evil empire. No more… me. I built an entire life around what I wasn't. You've still got a chance, young man. You still have a say in who you want to be.”

One night in early May, Mark called out of the blue. His deployment had been extended. He couldn’t say much about it.

“Hello,” Van answered.

“We got him.”

“What? Who?”

“Bin Laden. We got him, Van. That bastard is dead. He killed Dad. He ruined my—” he paused. He ruined so many lives. And my buddies killed him. I thought you’d want to know. We really got him, man.”

Van had no words but could hear the pain and the revelry in his younger brother’s voice. Like they were boys again, and Mark had found a wad of used gum on the ground. Van would have made fun of him for being excited; at least that was his first instinct. But he wasn't fourteen anymore, and his younger brother needed him.

“That’s great to hear, man. I’m really proud of you. Dad would be proud of you, too.”

Mark said nothing, but Van could hear him holding back on the other end of the phone. They talked a bit more, but Mark couldn’t talk long. He seemed to not be the talkative type anymore. Van hung up the phone and looked out his window towards downtown. Even if the towers were still there, he couldn’t see them, and if he hadn’t gone down there himself, he’d swear they were still there. There was cheering in the streets as the news broke. Horns were honking and people shouting out of their windows. There was no chance for sleep tonight, which irked him. He thought about his brothers. His parents. Osama bin Laden. He knew he should hate that name but couldn’t celebrate the death of someone he’d just learned existed. If he could sleep that night, he hoped it would be 1999 again.