Houdini and Me Dan Gutman (best free ebook reader for android TXT) 📖

Railroad tracks? I had no memory of being around the railroad tracks. My mom didn’t seem mad that I had done such a stupid thing. She just looked so grateful that I was alive.

The nurses were checking my vital signs—whatever they are—when another lady came in. Her nametag said “Dr. Fischer” on it.

“Well, it’s about time you woke up!” she said, winking at me. “I thought we might have to start charging your mother rent to stay here. She never goes home.”

The doctor put her hand on the back of my head and moved it around.

“The swelling has gone down significantly,” she said. “That’s a good sign. You don’t have a subdural hematoma.”

“That sounds scary,” I said.

“It is,” the doctor replied. “How do you feel?”

“Weak,” I told her.

“That’s normal,” she explained. “You haven’t moved your muscles in seven days.”

The doctor shined a little flashlight in my eyes and asked me a bunch of questions any dope could answer: “What year is it?” “Who is the president of the United States?” “How old are you?” That sort of thing. I answered all of them, no problem. Then she told me a little bit about concussions.

Apparently, a concussion means “a stunning, damaging, or shattering effect from a hard blow to the head.” Football players get them all the time, and it’s a big controversy over whether kids should be allowed to play football.

“Are you hungry, Harry?” the doctor asked.

“No.” And then I asked, “If I haven’t eaten anything for a week, how come I’m not hungry?”

“We’ve been giving you nutrition through the tube in your nose,” the doctor told me.

Eating through my nose? Gross.

“What kind of nutrition?” I asked.

“A fluid with a balance of protein, carbohydrate, fats, sugars, vitamins…”

“It sounds disgusting.”

“You’re going to be just fine,” Dr. Fischer said, writing something on a clipboard.

“So can I go home?” I asked.

“I want you to stay here one more night, just so we can keep an eye on you,” she said. “You may have a little difficulty standing and walking at first. The physical therapist will talk to you about that. When you get home, I want you to take it easy for a few weeks. No sports. No parties. And let’s stay away from railroad tracks, shall we?”

“Okay.”

“Any questions for me?” the doctor said.

“Am I going to be normal again?” I asked.

“Were you ever normal?” she replied.

When I didn’t laugh at her little joke, she said, “Young people usually bounce back quickly from these things. I think you’ll be just fine. If you continue to have a headache, or nausea or vomiting, we’ll take another look.”

When Dr. Fischer left, I noticed for the first time that the windowsill was filled with flowers, boxes of candy, cards, and letters. I struggled to prop myself up in the bed. My arms felt so weak. My mother put a pillow behind me, and pushed some button on a remote control that made the top of the bed rise up a little. Then she handed me a few of the get-well cards. They were written by my classmates at school. Really nice notes. Even a few of the kids I didn’t particularly like said they missed me and hoped I’d get better soon.

Mom and I were looking at the cards when there was a knock at the door. It was Zeke.

“Remember me?” he asked cautiously, as if he really thought I might not remember him. I gave him a fist bump.

“Zeke saved your life,” my mother told me. “If he hadn’t been around to run and get help, I don’t know that you’d be with us today, Harry.”

I looked at Zeke. He locked eyes with me and silently shook his head very slightly to let me know my mother didn’t know the whole story.

“You look good, you lazy bum,” he told me. “I wish I could go to sleep for a week.”

“What about school?” I asked Zeke. “I must have missed a ton of homework.”

“Don’t worry about that stuff now,” he replied. “You’ll catch up. The important thing is that you came out of it and you’re gonna get better.”

My mom got up and told me to smile so she could take a picture of me with her phone. Then she took her purse.

“I’m going to go out in the hall to make some phone calls and tell everybody the good news,” she said. “I’m sure you boys have a lot to talk about.”

As soon as my mom left, I turned to Zeke.

“Okay, what happened?” I whispered. “What were we doing by the railroad tracks?”

“You don’t remember?” he asked.

“I remember going to the park,” I told him. “After that, it’s a blur.”

Zeke reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, flat piece of silver metal. He handed it to me. It was shiny.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It used to be a quarter,” Zeke told me. “Now it’s a flattened piece of whatever they make quarters out of.”

I was beginning to remember. “We put this on the train tracks?” I asked, handing it back to him.

“Yeah.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because we’re idiots,” Zeke told me. “It was a stupid thing to do. Just as the train was coming, your shoelace got caught in the track. You couldn’t get it loose. At the last second, you rolled out of the way. That’s when you hit your head. It was all my fault. I’m really sorry, man. I’m so glad you’re okay. I don’t know what I would have done if you didn’t come out of it.”

Zeke looked like he was getting choked up. I opened one of the boxes of candy somebody sent me and gave him a piece. That seemed to cheer him up a little. He told me that after the train passed by and I was unconscious, he dragged me out of the tunnel and ran to get help. He wasn’t sure if I was dead or alive.

When my mom came back to the room, she took more pictures of me and hugged me