Finn by Matthew Olshan Page B

Aries K. . .”
    They showed the license number of my grandparents’ Dodge. Then they showed a picture of me, the one from the Field School that was on the milk cartons. It looked even less like me on TV than on a sweaty milk carton, which was something at least. They didn’t have a photograph of Silvia, which goes to show how temporary her life was at my grandparents’. Instead of a photograph, they had a police sketch. The eyebrows were thick and angry. The lips were huge. The expression on the face was more like a terrorist than a maid. The sketch had my grandfather written all over it.
    The other channels were showing our story, too. I didn’t even have to check to know that, but I checked anyway.
    The rest of what they said about us on the news was unimportant, but I do remember that right after Mr. Beaver finished reading his lies, he and the other anchorman joked about how badly some sports team was doing, comparing their bad season to the explosion at my grandparents’ house. That’s when I turned off the TV.
    Silvia and I sat there in the room, which was quiet now, except for the regular chirp of Silvia’s heartbeat from one of the monitors. We tried to kid each other about the police sketch. It might have been funny, in different circumstances.
    Silvia hadn’t understood the story word for word, so I went over it with her, which was much more painful than just watching it on TV.
    “Your grandparents think I kidnapped you? And exploded their house?” she said. I nodded and said that they could be pretty stupid at times. Silvia started to cry. She said, “I thought they liked me.” It amazed me that her feelings could be so hurt after all my grandparents had done to her.
    Silvia sat quietly for a while trying to calm her mind. Finally she asked, “What does this mean for us?” I told her it meant that we couldn’t use the car any more, because now the police would be looking for it.
    “And we have to leave the hospital?” I’m not the easiest person to move emotionally, but I leaned over and gave her a hug when she asked that. I even cried a little. Hearing the baby’s heartbeat had obviously made her want to stay.
    “Now more than ever,” I said.
    Silvia sat at the edge of the bed for a long time. Her lips were trembling. I helped pull the rubber suckers off her belly. The monitor squealed. “Then let’s go,” she said. “Roberto says the California hospitals are good, too.”
    After that, there wasn’t time to be sappy. I helped Silvia out of her hospital gown and back into her street clothes. The fizzy water had dried in one big faded blotch. Silvia noticed it, although I was hoping she wouldn’t. She started experimenting with the hospital gown, pinching it in back, examining the hems. I could tell she was considering wearing it, even though it was made out of paper. She told me it was quite nice. That’s the exact expression she used: “This is quite nice.” I told her to forget about the paper gown. My exact expression was: “You’re wasting our time with that piece of trash.” I didn’t mean to be nasty, but my words hung in the air afterwards like a bad smell.
    The scotch tape had come off my fingers, and I couldn’t feel them very well any more, which worried me, but at least there was less pain. I went though all the drawers in the room, hoping to find something for my wrist. One drawer was full of neatly rolled Ace bandages. Each roll was clamped with a pair of little toothy clips. I grabbed a few rolls. Then I hit the jackpot: a drawer with slings and arm braces. I tried some on. The only one that came close to fitting was covered with pictures of lacrosse sticks and helmets and the words “Go Team!” It screamed “stupid jock,” but it fit, so I strapped it on. I also picked up some Band-Aids, and a few tongue depressors. I didn’t know what I was going to do with the tongue depressors, but I just couldn’t resist. They were so clean and smooth and