Contact (12 page)

T
he hospital room smells faintly
of roses thanks to the fresh bouquets I’ve kept beside Mama’s bed, but it does little to mask the pervasive scent of ammonia and urine that follow us in from the hall.

Mama lies on her back, her arms resting on top of the blue blanket that covers her body. If someone didn’t know any better, they would think she was taking a nap. Except for the gray circles that have formed around her eyes and the respirator attached to her mouth, she looks just the same as she did that morning I tried to wake her.

David stands beside me at the foot of Mama’s bed. “She’s beautiful,” he says quietly.

Hearing him say those words makes me happy. She is beautiful. But then he adds, “Like mother, like daughter.”

His comment takes me off guard. Fortunately, the nurse comes in before David can notice that I’m blushing.

“Hey, Mira,” she says as she checks Mama’s IV level. Jessie is one of several nurses assigned to Mama’s care. She’s young, in her early twenties, with bright blue eyes and a comfortable smile. “You brought a friend?”

After I introduce her to David, Jessie removes the wilted purple roses from a glass vase on the nightstand. David drops in the fresh bouquet of yellow ones we picked up on the way, and Jessie gives me a wink and thumbs up behind his back. I feel my cheeks turning red all over again.

“All right then,” says Jessie, “I’ll leave the three of you alone. If you need anything, just buzz.” She points to the button on the wall over Mama’s bed, more for David’s benefit, I guess, than mine.

After Jessie leaves, David pulls up a stool and sits down. “Well, I’ve met the nurse,” he says, making a show of smoothing down his hair and straightening an invisible tie, “now for the real test…the parent.”

I lean over the bed a little to make sure she can hear me. “Mama?” I say. “Mama, this is David, a friend of mine.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Ortiz.” David gives a little wave, but there is nothing apprehensive or condescending in the gesture or his tone.  “You know, Mira,” he continues, “I think your Mama would like me.”

“
Would
like you? I’m sure she likes you now.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, most definitely.”

He lets out a soft laugh, like the news pleases him.

“You don’t believe me?” I ask.

“Sure, I believe you, Mira.” His tone is more serious now. His gaze fixes on mine. “I really am sorry about your mother. I shouldn’t have made light of it.”

He looks down at the floor. He’s ashamed, though I’m not sure why. Does he think he’s offended me? Does he believe I’m so sensitive that I can’t enjoy a little humor?

“David, it’s all right,” I tell him. “I wasn’t kidding when I said Mama likes you.”

“But she never met me. Not officially anyway.”

“She’s meeting you now.”

“Mira, she doesn’t know I’m here.”

He’s starting to look concerned. I realize that now is the time. This is the moment I’ve been dreading, but it’s all or nothing. I might as well get it over with.

“This is why I brought you here,” I begin. “You said you wanted to understand me.”

“I do.”

“Okay then.”

I hesitate. No matter how many times I do this, I can’t get used to it, just like you never get used to getting burned. Finally I will myself to reach out my right hand and simply lay it on top of my mother’s hand. The electric shock tears through me, but I ignore the pain.

“Mama does like you, immensely,” I say to David. “She likes your voice. It is…
amable
?”

“Kind? I thought you didn’t speak Spanish?”

“I don’t.”

David looks at me intently. He glances to my mother and back to me. I can tell he doesn’t know what to make of this.

I look at Mama, and I feel my face go warm with embarrassment. I have to remind myself that Mama is in a coma.

“Mama, no,” I tell her.

“What?” asks David.

I’m sure my face is bright red now. “Mama wonders if you’ve been a gentleman with me. She wants to make sure we haven’t…”

A look of comprehension crosses David’s face, which quickly turns red as well.

“No!” he says, nearly laughing. “No…” but then his expression changes. He stands abruptly, pressing his fists into his hips, and his voice gets a little louder.

“Mira, what are you doing?”

“I’m trying to show you.”

“Show me what? That you can make a joke out of this? Your mother is in a coma for crissake!”

“She’s still here.” I let go of Mama, and the pain subsides.

David sits down again. He’s whispering now, not wanting others to overhear. “Of course she’s still here. I’m sure you’ve been told to communicate with her, right? Let her hear your voice? I get it.”

“No you don’t get it. This isn’t about Mama. It’s about me. I’m not like anyone else.”

“That much we agree on.”

“David,” I begin, my voice quiet and slow, “when I touch people, skin to skin, I see everything inside them: Thoughts, feelings, memories…all of it. In a single instant, that person’s psyche enters my own. See how I touched my mother’s hand?  She’s in there, David. She’s comatose, but she’s still thinking! New things every day. The smell of ammonia when the janitor comes in to mop the floor, the sounds of the heart monitor and the murmured conversations between the nurses, the feel of this blanket against her skin. She’s taking it all in.”

David doesn’t respond, so I continue. “This is why I see Dr. Walsh. It’s why I went to that clinic today. I don’t understand it any more than you do, but that doesn’t make it fake.”

David nods his head and rises from his stool. “This is why you won’t kiss me?”

“Yes.”

His eyes betray how hurt he feels. This is not what I expected. But what did I expect? For him to shout hallelujah and take every word I say as gospel truth?

“Now I do understand,” he says as he walks to the door. “But you didn’t have to go to so much trouble to get rid of me. All you had to say was goodbye.”

And with that, David walks out.

The truth hits me like an arrow that’s been shot through my heart. He doesn’t believe me.

I
follow David out into
the hospital waiting room and find him sitting with his face cradled in his hands. I take the chair beside him. Then…I wait. It doesn’t seem right for me to speak. I’ve already said enough. He needs time to process it.

After a while he straightens up and leans back in his chair. He doesn’t look at me when he speaks. “I’m sorry,” he says, the fingers of his right hand drumming against the chair arm. “I just needed a minute.”

The drumming stops and he leans forward again, clasping his hands in front of him. “I like you, Mira. If you don’t feel the same about me, I have to respect that.”

“You’ve got it wrong, David. That’s not it at all.”

“What then?” He looks directly at me. His gaze is intense, as if his eyes alone could draw from me some hidden truth.

“I told you—in there. Something happens to me when I come in contact with other people. I know it’s hard to believe,” I continue. “I can’t expect you to believe me, but whether you do or don’t, it doesn’t change the fact that it’s true. And if it helps at all, you should know that I hate it. I hate it so much that I—”

For some reason, I can’t say it. He already thinks I’m insane. If I tell him I’m suicidal, too, he’ll probably run for the nearest exit. I can’t say I’d blame him. I’d do the same thing if I was in his place. I cover my face with both hands. I want to scream. I want to cry. This is like Craig all over again. And Mama. No matter what I do, I always end up pushing people away. I always end up alone.

David remains silent for some time, staring at the floor. After a while, he finally talks.  “So, if I touched you,” he says in a quiet voice, “you’d know everything about me.”

I nod slowly. He breathes out with some force, the way people do when they’re thinking about something serious.

“I just—” He stops.

“Yes?”

“I don’t know, Mira. It’s a lot to take in.”

“I know.”

David looks at me again, but his expression—apologetic and resigned—cuts deep. Then, before either of us can say anything more, the ER doors open and in walks Papa with Jordan right behind. I can tell from the stern expression on his face that he’s not pleased to see us here.

“Hi Papa,” I say, jumping to my feet, but he ignores my greeting completely.

“What are you doing here?”

“What do you mean? You know I come here every day.”

Papa glares angrily at David.
“I meant
him
.”

“Hello, Mr. Ortiz.”  David extends his hand, but Papa doesn’t take it. He’s fuming.

“Papa, you remember David from the fundraiser. He works at the convention center.”

“I know who he is,” Papa says. “I thought I told you not to bother us.”

“You did, sir. Mira just brought me here to introduce me to your wife.”

“Papa? You told him not to talk to me?” I ask, angry now. “When? Why?”

“Because you don’t need anyone interfering right now.”

“Interfering? What are you talking about? David isn’t interfering with anything. He is my friend—and a perfect gentleman. You have nothing to worry about.”

Papa doesn’t say anything more to David. He turns to me instead. “Get in the car, Mira. Jordan will take you home.”

“But David and I have plans.”

David interrupts, “It’s all right, Mira. I’ve gotta run anyway. I’ll see you around.”

Giving me a half-hearted smile, he strides purposefully out of the hospital without glancing back.  Although I know it’s best that I obey my father, whether I want to or not, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever see David again.

I spin toward Papa, anger roiling inside me, like a volcano about to erupt. “I can’t believe you went behind my back! After everything I’ve been through—”

“Mira—”

“David’s the only real friend I’ve got right now, the only person I can talk to, and you’re trying to ruin it for me.”

I turn for the doors intending to stomp out, but Papa grabs my shoulder to stop me. As I pull away, his fingers slide down my arm to my hand. He grips it reflexively for a moment, and then snatches it away, the emotion draining from his face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I—”

I’ve never seen him look so shaken before. Though he claims he doesn’t buy my condition, he does everything he can to avoid touching me. But he shouldn’t bother.
I’ve known it since the beginning when this all first began. I just haven’t told him because I can’t explain it, and he has a hard enough time dealing with me without my throwing in a curve ball like this. And the fact is I’m still trying to figure out why, when I touch him, I see absolutely nothing.

When I follow Jordan out
to the car, I don’t bother looking back to see if Papa is watching. I know he’s not. I slide into the passenger seat, slam the door shut, and shove my hands into my pockets. My fingers collide with something cold and hard—David’s cell phone. I’d forgotten that he asked me to hold it for him at the park.

Jordan gets in and starts the engine. “You shouldn’t take what your dad says too hard. He’s got a lot on his mind. He’s worried about you, about your spending so much time at the hospital when you could be out doing other things.”

“Like what? Hanging out with friends? Well, he seemed pretty angry about my doing that just now.”

“I know,” Jordan sighs. “He saw your boyfriend and overreacted.”

“David’s not my boyfriend.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Jordan starts the engine and backs out of our parking space. A jagged shadow falls over me through the car window. I look up at the Rawley wing, the sun blazing through the windows on the lower floors and the mesh of girders above. I notice that some of the windows on the fourth level are dark, covered from the inside with a reflective lining.

“Why are those windows covered up?” I ask.

Jordan leans over me to peer up at the building. “We’ve been moving things over from the old lab. The light isn’t good for the specimens.”

The car eases out of the parking lot. We wait at the red light before merging into traffic, the reflection of the wing still visible in the car’s side view mirror.

“What’s in there?” I ask, half to myself.

“Oh, just your typical lab stuff,” Jordan answers with an indifferent shrug. “Bunsen burners, microscopes, jars of dead babies…”

“What? Ewww!”

Jordan’s lips twist into a devious grin.

“That’s just gross, Jordan!”

“Should’ve seen your face,” he laughs. “Priceless.”

The signal turns green, and the Benz jolts forward. We continue on for a while before stopping at another signal. Jordan’s gloved fingers tap at the steering wheel.

“By the way, Mira, there’s something your dad asked me to talk with you about. He got a call from your mother’s attending physician, Dr. Zimmerman. He says you’ve been asking questions—about the blood test results.”

“Papa suggested I should.”

“He didn’t mean for you to actually… Mira, you know you shouldn’t question the doctors that way. It smacks of disrespect.”

“But I think there was a mistake. The results were wrong.”

“Wrong how?”

“I just think it’s odd they found Trazodone in her sample, that’s all.”

Jordan glances at me for a second, and then turns his eyes back to the road. “What’s so unusual about that? Lots of people take sleeping pills. The bottle was right there on her nightstand.”

“But she hardly ever uses them.”

“Well, she used them that night.”

“No, she didn’t.”

Jordan snorts, actually snorts. “How would you know?”

“I just know.” My words come out more defensively than I intend. I take a second to calm myself. Jordan’s watching the road, but he is listening.

“Jordan, I need to talk to someone. I can’t talk to Papa. Every time I try—he won’t take me seriously.”

Jordan nods. “You can always talk to me, Sunshine. You know that.” He rests his left elbow near the car window and leans his head against his fist. It’s his thinking pose, what he does when he’s considering something important. “Go on.”

“Well, Papa thinks my—condition—is a bunch of bull. Maybe you do, too, but it isn’t. I’ve seen Mama’s mind. The last time she took Trazodone was more than a month ago when she had a bad headache and needed to sleep it off. She hasn’t had any since, and she didn’t take any pills the night of Papa’s fundraiser.”

The light turns, but Jordan doesn’t seem to see it.

“It’s green,” I tell him.

“Oh,” he says. Easing off the brake, he starts across the intersection, returning both hands to the steering wheel.

“And there’s something else,” I continue. “The doctor said she took too much insulin and that’s why her blood sugar dropped so low. But she didn’t take any insulin
that night either. Without the insulin, her blood sugar should have been too high, not too low. It doesn’t make any sense.”

While I’ve been talking, Jordan’s jaw muscles have clenched; I can tell he doesn’t like what he’s hearing.

“Not to be disrespectful,” his voice tightens, “but your mother was stone-cold drunk that night. She may have taken the pills and the insulin and not remembered.”

“She wasn’t drunk, at least not as drunk as she appeared to be,” I add. “She only had a couple glasses of champagne.”

“Or maybe it was your father who gave her the insulin. Even you’ve done that for her in the past.”

“But if he did, why hasn’t he said so? Why would he keep insisting she did it herself? And that still wouldn’t explain all the Trazodone.”

“Stop it, Mira,” Jordan’s voice is loud; the sharp tone takes me by surprise.

As we approach the next signal, it turns yellow. Jordan presses on the accelerator and the car speeds toward the intersection. But before we reach it, the light turns red. Jordan slams on the brakes. My body jolts forward, my seatbelt snapping tight as the car screeches to a stop. The car behind us blares its horn.

Jordan takes a deep breath and lets it out through clenched teeth. When he speaks again, he’s calmer, but there’s still an edge in his voice. “What are you doing, Mira?” His hands grip the wheel. “Are you accusing your dad of—?”

He looks at me, his eyes searching mine.

“No!” I say, realizing what he’s asking. “No, it’s just that…”

What
am
I doing? Could someone really have hurt Mama on purpose? When I think about it, the idea does seem farfetched. We drive in silence for a few minutes before arriving at our gate. It swings slowly open, and the Benz makes its way up the gravel drive, finally coming to rest in front of the porch. We sit there with the engine idling.

“When I was a kid,” says Jordan finally, “my mom had—problems. I don’t think she was ever properly diagnosed or anything, but she would get mad sometimes; I mean like, she’d go into a blind rage over the smallest things. Once, I came home from school with a note from my teacher. I’d left my spelling book at home. Mom freaked out, screamed right in my face. She didn’t hit me that time, but I was scared half to death. When she finally burned herself out, she dropped to her knees and begged me to forgive her. She cried like a baby when I said I would.

“Other times Mom was excessively happy. She’d get these urges to go shopping and come home with all sorts of junk. She bought this parrot one time, a McCaw I think. That thing was huge. Its beak was as big as my fist, and it chewed through every piece of furniture in our apartment. When it chewed up the piano, Mom let it go.”

“Let it go?” I ask, shocked.

“Yeah. Just opened the front door one day and let it fly off. Crazy, huh?”

Jordan smiles at the memory, but then gets really quiet. “Life with her was a complete rollercoaster—at least until the day she hung herself in her bedroom closet.”

Outside the car, I notice the sky is growing darker. I watch as the colors of day pale to gray. Jordan leans his head against the back of his seat. His jacket falls open, and the metal of his pistol barrel glints in the fading sunlight.

“I know you miss your mom,” he continues. “I miss her, too, and so does your dad. It’s only natural you’d want to find some explanation for what happened, Mira. I wish there was an easy answer, but there just isn’t.”

Maybe he’s right. Maybe I
have
been reading too much into Mama’s thoughts. I silently chastise myself for letting my imagination run wild.

“Whatever you may think about your dad, don’t forget about all the good he’s done. If Gaudium had been around for my mom . . . No one should have to endure what she did ever again.”

“But my dad didn’t discover Gaudium,” I remind him. “He’s a businessman, not a scientist.”

“He’s the face of Rawley Pharmaceutical. I know he doesn’t work with us now, but to the public he still
is
Rawley. And once he becomes governor, we’re practically ensured funding for continued research. There’s no telling how far Gaudium can go—the number of lives it can save.”

I climb out of the Benz and shut the door.

Jordan rolls down the passenger side window. “I’ve got to get back to the hospital to pick up your dad,” he says, his hands still gripping the steering wheel. He manages a half-hearted smile. “Tell Helen he may not make it back for dinner. And Mira, hang in there, okay? We’re all in this together.”

I watch Jordan drive away. As for me, I’m already regretting our conversation. It was thoughtless of me to say what I did. I hadn’t meant to accuse Papa of anything. I wonder if Jordan will tell him what I said. But then I think, who cares? It would serve him right. But I feel a little guilty, too, because I also know how deeply Mama loves him. She would never do anything to hurt him, and yet that is exactly what I’ve done.