Have You Found Her (34 page)

Which would mean that she’d been lying to me for the past four months.

Dr. Rice started to move toward the nurses’ desk, but I stopped her. “Wait, if you could just…” Now I was scared that Sam would be angry with me, that I’d said too much and betrayed her confidence. She didn’t want everybody to know about her AIDS; she could have been using the false negatives to lie to the doctors, to lie to herself. “Please don’t tell her we had this talk. Samantha’s incredibly protective of her privacy, and she hates talking about her AIDS. She’s been in a lot of denial about it; she
hates
it when other people talk about it. If you could just tell her you need to retest her, okay, but don’t tell her we talked—I’ve spent a lot of time trying to earn her trust, and—”

“I won’t,” Dr. Rice assured me. “But listen, you did the right thing. Now maybe we can get to the bottom of this and find out what’s really wrong with her. She’ll be up from her MRI soon, then I’ll request the blood sample before dinner. You can wait in her room until she gets back, and neither of us has to say anything about this discussion. All right?”

Dr. Rice strode off to the nurses’ station, picked up the phone, made a call. I was standing there staring at her, and she gave me a high sign with her chin—
I’m on the case; go wait for her in her room
.

In Sam’s room: her messy sheets, a teddy bear from Maria, a children’s library book about the building of the U.S. railroad spread open facedown on the night table. Her orange sweatshirt with the frayed cuffs and collar on the chair. It was like the scene of a crime—all the evidence of her life, but no her.

If I was panting when I showed up at the hospital today, I was hyperventilating now. I was dizzy from overoxygenation. I needed a paper bag, stat. I needed six or seven joints. I needed to sit down, but I had to pace. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and called Bill at work.

“Hey, babe,” he answered. “What’d the doctors say?”

I braced one arm across my chest, smiled a vicious, hard-breathing smile. “Well, they say she doesn’t have AIDS, is what they say.”

“Wha-at?” His voice broke with surprise. “What the hell?”

“Yep. They say they’ve done two tests on her, and they’re negative.
Negative
. They just did her T cells the other day, and they’re
fine
.”

“What the…this has got to be a mistake. You’re telling me she tested…” I heard his hand slap the desk. “No. They fucked up. The hospital fucked up.” He’d called it—hospital error—and his voice went from bewildered to pissed off on my behalf. “No wonder they haven’t been able to help her, they’re a bunch of idiots who can’t run a simple series of tests. Jesus, honey, that’s gotta be—”

“I don’t know, babe, I don’t know.” My stomach growled—fear, not hunger. I wished I was as desk-slapping sure as Bill was. Maybe it was a mistake, but whose? Dr. Rice’s? Mine? I was pacing in the tiny room, my eyes lighting on objects I could barely identify anymore—a water pitcher with flowers from Jodi, half-deflated balloons that said
GET WELL SOON
. None of them meant anything. They were all props in a play.

“Look, it’s got to be the hospital’s error,” Bill said again, in his patented voice of reason. He laughed a little, ironically. “Don’t worry, honey, I’m sure she has AIDS.”

“Hah,” I said, mirthless. “She
better
have AIDS, or I’m going to kill her.”

There were voices in the hall, getting closer; Samantha was back from her MRI. I promised I’d call Bill back as soon as I heard something, and signed off. “I love you.”

I was looking at Samantha as I said the words, snapping the phone shut as one of the transporters wheeled her into the room. Sam looked groggy and pale, but she smiled at me under her heavy lids.

“Hey, babe,” I said.

“Hey,” she said thickly.

The transporter helped her into bed, her long, thin legs covered in scabs and scratches. He reattached her to the IV, the heart monitor, the breathing monitor. Her antibiotics were in a glass jar—they’d eat right through a plastic bag. On the jar, it said,
DO NOT ALLOW CONTENTS TO COME IN CONTACT WITH MUCUS MEMBRANES OR EXPOSED SKIN. IF ACCIDENTALLY INGESTED, CALL POISON CONTROL
.

Sam lay back against the pillow, her eyes glassy from the pain meds. I moved over into my usual position by her head, petted her hair for a minute. The familiar smell of her warm skin made my throat close. “How’s it going today?”

“All right,” she said, sniffling. They were giving her opiates again, I could tell by the junkie sniffle. She scratched the side of her face. “Pain’s been bad, but they gave me some meds….”

“I can see that.” I attempted a smile. “So how was the MRI? Did they tell you what they found?”

Something was wrong with my voice. That was supposed to sound sympathetic, and it came out suspicious. “It went okay,” Sam said, looking at me with those penetrating, preternatural eyes, the dark bags beneath them. “I’m…it’s been a hard day.”

Yeah, I knew what she meant. The transporter finished adjusting the various tubes and plugs, pushed the beeping buttons on the IV, left us with a nod. Sam lifted her head to inspect the job, then sank back again against the propped-up pillow, let her head loll to the left.

“So listen,” I said, “I want to have a talk with one of your doctors—”

“Can you hand me that pillow?” Sam interrupted, gesturing to the other chair, where an extra pillow sat next to a bag of Tootsie Pops from Maria. She wrinkled her nose like a rabbit, wiped it with the side of her hand, scratched her face. Just like the redhead on my corner would do, right before she started to nod.

“Sure thing.” I passed her the pillow. I tried to meet her eyes, but they were off, unfocused. “So listen, I’ve been trying to get in touch with one of your doctors….”

“Uh-huh.” She put her hand over her stomach and sat up with a grimace. “Sorry, I’m just feeling so…” I reached out and stroked her back. She belched and scowled. “Uhhhh…”

Samantha looked over at the puke trough. My eyes followed hers, but I didn’t reach over to get it for her, as I normally would, trying to anticipate her needs and meet them before she could even speak. She noted my negligence, pressed her hands against her stomach, and moaned some more.

“Should I call the nurse?” I asked.

She shook her head, dizzy and pained. “No, I’m…I’m okay, it’s just—”

“Yeah.” I cut her off. “You look awful. Listen, I definitely think we should get one of your doctors in here. I think we both need some explanations. They’ve got to do something to help you out.”

“No-oo!” Her protest came out in a whine. I’d heard her whimper, during spinal taps and the like, but I didn’t think I’d ever heard her whine. “I’m all right! It was just the test, and everything…just let me…I’m all right….” She lay back weakly. “It’s just been…a hard day. I think I just need to sleep. Maybe today’s not the best day for a visit…”

Oh. No. I was
not
dismissed. I smiled a tight little smile. She was lying about something, and she thought I wasn’t going to figure it out? I didn’t care how much denial she wanted to be in, or how much she wanted to manipulate her own treatment. She was
not
lying to me and getting away with it.

“I understand,” I said soothingly. “You get some rest. And I’m going to try and find one of these doctors, because I really think they need to give us some answers here. You shouldn’t be suffering like this.”

“No, but, the doctors, they’re doing everything they can!” She was whining again, and her face was screwed up like I’d never seen it before. She sniffed, rubbed her nose, and scratched, more viciously this time. She was frustrated and high, she just wanted to lie up in bed and have someone read to her about the U.S. railroads, and I wasn’t playing along.

“Well, I’d still like to talk to someone. I’ll just ask the nurse who’s on duty, and maybe we can all have a chat.” I removed my hand from her mop of hair and strode with purpose out to the nurses’ desk.
Action
. The watchword of the day.

“Can you please page Dr. Rice and ask her to join us in Sam’s room when she gets a chance? Thanks.”

The nurse gave me a quick nod, picked up the phone. “Dr. Rice to room 1015, please.”

“Thanks.”

Sam heard it, too. I reentered her room, and she was sitting up, scowling like a gargoyle. “I don’t feel so good,” she said, hand on her belly again. “I think I have to throw up.”

I handed her the trough and assumed my usual position at her side, one hand patting her back as she dry heaved. “Oh, this sucks so much,” I crooned. She heaved again, but it was forced; it wasn’t coming from her stomach, she was just throwing her torso forward and pretending. Dr. Rice knocked and entered, looking concerned. She shut the door behind her.

“Hey, Samantha, how are you today?” Dr. Rice met my eyes as though we didn’t just speak in the hallway ten minutes ago. “Hi there. You’re her health-care proxy, right?”

“I am.” I smiled. “Janice Erlbaum.”

She shook my hand and took the chair with the bag of Tootsie Pops on it. I sat in the other chair.

“So how’d it go with the MRI?” asked Dr. Rice.

“Good,” said Sam warily. She sniffled. “I mean, I’m kind of exhausted, but I’m glad it’s done. Maybe they’ll be able to tell me something.”

“Well, that’s what we’re hoping for.” Dr. Rice’s eyes met mine, then flicked away to Sam’s. “Anyway, I’m glad Janice is here, because I think it’s good if we can all be up-to-date on everything that’s going on.”

Sam’s glassy eyes were open about a foot high, and her skin was like wax. “Can we…do we have to talk about this now?”

“It’ll just take a minute,” Dr. Rice assured her. She turned to me, and repeated what she’d said in the hallway as though for the first time. “Of course, the main problem Sam’s having is the recurring infections, which we keep treating with antibiotics, but they keep coming back. We’re still trying to figure out why she keeps getting them, but—”

“Okay, but what about the antivirals?” I asked, wide-eyed. “I mean, shouldn’t they be helping to combat the AIDS?”

Samantha turned her head sharply my way, clenched her jaw and bugged her eyes out at me.
Don’t say “AIDS” in front of the doctor
. The thin line of her mouth was menacing, and there was violence in her stare.

I bugged my eyes back at her, shocked by the ferocity of her look. “Don’t bug your eyes at me,” I warned, my voice rising. “Have you been taking your AIDS meds, or not?”

Sam bugged her eyes again, wider this time. She was as hard and cold as marble. I’d never seen her like this; I could barely recognize this girl, staring at me with furious intent. This couldn’t be Sam—not my kite-flying, birthday-card-sending Sam, who always looked at me with such gratitude and love. I stared right back at her, unflinching, even as my heart beat so loudly, the loudest thing in the room, louder than the beeping IV, louder than the nurse on the intercom:
Dr. Rice, please call Dr. Lashki; Dr. Rice, call Dr. Lashki.
Dr. Rice sat there, looking at the two of us, clipboard on her lap.

Sam turned her head away from me. “I want you to leave,” she said coldly.

I laughed, and choked on it,
kah
. “You want me to leave?” I demanded, already rising. “You want
me
to leave?” I fumbled for my bag, shoving the chair back. My heart couldn’t keep up with the pace it had set; the beats were stacking up, tripping. “You
bet
I’m leaving. Because
obviously,
I have been
in the way
here.”

I was walking toward the door, though my feet didn’t feel anything; I didn’t feel anything but a rush of motion underneath me, like I was on a plane, on an escalator, like the world was moving for me. I stopped at the door and turned around.

“I will be right outside in the visitors’ lounge,” I said, “waiting for someone to explain to me exactly what the
fuck
is going on here.”

Then I ripped open the door and stormed through.

The nurse gave me an alarmed look from her station as I heaved myself into the visitors’ lounge, empty except for some chewed-up Styrofoam cups and a year-old copy of
Highlights Kids’
magazine. Ah,
Highlights
! How often I’d flipped through it during our stays here, reading about the twin brothers, Goofus and Gallant, one bad and one good—
Goofus lies about his HIV status and refuses to take his meds! Whereas Gallant acknowledges his AIDS and cooperates with his support team!
The room was barely big enough to pace; how could a hospital have a waiting room where you couldn’t pace? What the hell was wrong with this place? What the hell?

Dr. Rice entered the visitors’ lounge. “Hey,” she said, her eyes wide. “So, Sam’s revoked your proxy, and she asked me to have you leave the building.”

I nodded, dumb with disbelief. “Okay.”

“But before you go—I can’t talk to you anymore, because she’s asked me not to.” She looked at me with extra meaning. “But
you
can still talk to
me
. So if there’s anything we should know…”

Right. Well, you see, Doctor, I met this girl in a homeless shelter last fall, and I fell in love with her. Not like that. Real love, not romantic love—true love, family love. And she was sick, and then she got well, and she was high, and then she got sober, and then she got sick again, and she’s stayed so sick. And I’ve just been here, for the past eleven months, loving her, and waiting for her to die.

“She’s been in and out of hospitals all year,” I began. Dr. Rice nodded and nodded as I went through the history. St. Victor’s for the hand infection. Bushwick for the pneumonia. The phone call when she told me she’d been diagnosed HIV-positive. The weeks and weeks I’d spent here in the Bronx—meningitis and MAC, eyeball injections and spinal taps. And then I stopped, remembering how the doctor at the shelter had said that Sam might have sabotaged her infected hand because she didn’t want to move on. I repeated this to Dr. Rice.

“This couldn’t be her sabotaging her health,” I asked, “could it?”

Dr. Rice tipped her head, considering. “Well, you know, I don’t see how she could have sabotaged herself into fungemia, so I think we can rule that out. She’s definitely been dishonest about something, though, and maybe this will give us some clues as to what’s going on. Just let her calm down, we’ll retest her, and I’ll encourage her to be in touch with you, okay?”