THE EMERGENCY ROOM IS SECOND RATE. THE WORK
depressing and stressful. The best thing about it is that when you’re done for the night, you’re done. You never see the patients again. You don’t have to think about them. Although you do, you do think about them.
Tonight, Rick is performing jobs he shouldn’t be doing, like taking blood pressure and collecting urine and ushering patients to the X-ray room or having to lay out his own suture set. For two hours, he’s been the only doctor on duty. In those two hours, three different knife lacerations and four ODs have trundled in the front door. He handles them, even though every time he reaches for something he’s found that the nurses have stolen items from his stock. They’ve run out of sterile surgical drapes. They’ve almost run out of latex gloves. The place stinks of the sour fluids of the body diluted with pure oxygen. The orderly can’t keep up with the dots of blood decorating the floor.
An old jazz trumpeter comes in. Nice guy. Totally demented. Hallucinating. Complaining of diarrhea. Lesions all over his skin. Rick puts it together: the “three Ds”—dermatitis, diarrhea, dementia. The guy’s got pellagra, for god’s sake! A nineteenth-century vitamin deficiency. Why? Because he’s been living on fried white rice. Says it tastes good. Fried rice and black coffee. Now he’s completely round the bend. The Medicaid shrinks can’t wait to force-feed him Haldol and Klonipin and all he really needs is a square meal.
Like most of ’em, the old trumpeter lives alone, spends his life watching TV, smoking cigarettes and drinking. Of course, the booze doesn’t help. The old guy’s fondling the cusp of senility to begin with. The alcohol will take that cusp and stab it right through his meek old heart. The guy forgets to eat, becomes malnourished, loses his mind. He’ll probably go back to eating the way he likes to eat, fall down a flight of stairs and break his neck.
Clean the guy up and send him home. Stick a couple of cans of chocolate-flavored nutritional drink in the bag for good measure. The oldster has lived his life his own way so his problems are his own fault. It’s his own fault he’s survived this long.
But not everyone who shows up is geriatric. The immune-compromised appear almost every night, HIV-ers mostly, Hep C. Some hemophiliacs. Half the time it’s something simple like a case of oral candidiasis complicated by panic. A can of oxygen and a fistful of tranks and antibiotics usually get ’em through the night until they can see their regular doctor in the morning. They’re not bad people, just unlucky.
The kids upset Rick, but fortunately there are pediatric specialists who take care of them. And there are the “normals” who show up like wide-eyed Alices through the looking glass, not sure what the protocol is, more afraid of the place itself than the broken finger or the fever that drove them here. Rick knows them best, members of his own tribe. But their fear stirs up his contempt, so he hides behind his professional mask, and becomes one more impersonal facet of the emergency room.
Finally there are the junkies, not to be confused with the crackheads or coke fiends like the guy who died a while back. The junkies are a hospital-loving society unto themselves with two main subdivisions: heroin addicts (which include methadone addicts) and pill-heads (they lust after a rainbow-colored spectrum of pharmacology: Nembutals, Tuinals, Darvocets, Valiums, Libriums, Biphetamines, Tylenol 4’s and Percodans). A pill-head sees a hospital as nothing more than a vast storage facility for pharmaceuticals. Shooters love the place, too. The brand-new syringes alone make the place seem like the promised land. And how ’bout all that Dilaudid, morphine, fentanyl, Demerol, Percoset, oxycodin—gosh almighty, the hospital is Christmas morning every single day. And so junkies are endlessly scamming and scheming, trying to convince the doctors that the Vicodin or the Seconal are essential to their very existence.
This night ends with drama. Two cops show up with a big guy covered in blood. They want him stitched up before they haul him out to Rikers Island. He beat up two Dominican heroin dealers on Avenue A. Put them both in the hospital. Then their friends found the big guy and sliced him up with a straight razor.
Rick insists that the cuffs be taken off the guy, who promises he’ll be good. As Rick is stitching him up, he tries to draw him out. “Fortunately, these lacerations are clean-edged. Keeping the wound moist will keep the scarring minimal. Tell you this, though, one more inch to the right and your friends would have hit the jugular and you wouldn’t be here, you’d be in the morgue.”
“They’re not my friends.”
“No, I guess not. You from the city originally?”
“Farm upstate. Orchard. No harvest this year.”
“No?”
“Van got stole.”
“I see.”
“My sister’s on the cover of British
Vogue
.”
“Really?”
“Makes a million bucks a minute. Two million.”
“Well, then, I’ll send the bill to her.”
“You do that, ’cause it’s all her fault.”
“I will.”
Billy squints at Rick. “You Jewish?”
“As I matter of fact I am.”
Billy takes this in and decides to clam up.
From their dialogue, Rick concludes the guy is either completely schizophrenic or temporarily out of his tree due to drug use. The cops want the guy to go to Rikers but Rick insists he be sent out for psychiatric observation. Rick has to stay an extra hour just to finish processing the paperwork.
That night, when he gets home, Rick falls asleep so fast, the suddenness wakes him up again. He lies in the dark listening to his heart bumping with fear. Rick gets up and takes a Valium. Is insanity contagious?
THE RINGING WAKES RENA AT ELEVEN. THIS IS A PROFESSIONAL
commitment on her part, sleeping as long as possible. Don’t get up till the first call of the day. Slumber restores skin, clears eyes, lets the soul find itself. Marissa’s assistant calls out to Rena while she hides under the covers. Why doesn’t Marissa dial the fucking phone herself? Whatever. Rena stretches in a big yoga arch, her navel aimed at the ceiling, head swimming, legs quivering, before letting herself collapse, leaning out over the bed to find the Marlboro Lights, lighting one, and snatching up the phone.
“Yeah?”
“Rena? Hold for Marissa.” Rena pulls the biggest drag she can into her lungs. Some kind of hip Muzak/house music fills the time until Marissa gets on, terse right off the blocks. “Rena? Where are you?”
Sleep recedes, memory cascades into place. “Shit.”
“Don’t tell me you’re still at home.”
“Fuck.”
Rena flies out of bed, phone in one hand, snatching up clothes with the other.
Marissa is loud. “This doesn’t work, kid. This doesn’t work at all.”
“Don’t yell at me, Marissa.” She carries the phone into the shower.
“Maybe, just maybe if you had your bookings stacked, I could work this out. But Rena, RENA, here’s the deal. They don’t hire you not to show up.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“No, you won’t.”
“I will!” Bitch.
“You won’t, baby. They already booked your replacement.”
“Who?”
“Never mind who.”
“A client of yours?”
“Screw you. You fucked this up, kid, don’t try to stick it on me.” Marissa hangs up.
Rena leaves the shower running, wanders into the kitchen and finds a can of beer in the fridge. Budweiser. Why do I have a Budweiser in my fridge? Was someone here I don’t remember? She scans the room. The ashtrays are full of crumpled Lucky Strike butts. Who smokes Lucky Strikes?
Rena sees she’s still wearing the bra she had on last night, tugs it off and throws it in the trash, there will be no bra this morning. Did I have sex with my bra on? I’m like a fucking character on that sitcom. Wait a minute, what’s her name was at that party last night! How weird is that? Because she’s on that show, right? Sarah…Jessica…No…wait a minute, it wasn’t her! It was the other Parker…Mary Louise Parker! Right. No. Was she? Whoa. Wait, gonna get this straight. Parker Posey! That’s who it was! Damn, girl, you’re getting brain damage. Gotta slow down.
Fucking book party Marissa insisted I go to. Bunch of leering weird guys. All those boring book party people. Editors making small talk, their pig eyes scouting my boobs. The writers with their bullshit anger. I’m supposed to be impressed. “Oh, I’m just a dumb blonde. I don’t even know even how to spell! Please lecture me!” Ivy League assholes who think they’re rebels ’cause they can grow a goatee.
Like I give a shit what they do. That dickhead who bragged about how much whiskey he can drink. He didn’t last so long. Drink your ass under the table, professor. So wait. Whiskey not martinis. Whiskey not martinis. But I was drinking martinis. Maybe that was later. Or earlier. No wonder I’m hungover.
Mr. Whiskey tried to kiss me in the cab and then passed out. Left him there, right? Jumped out at the corner, found another cab and ended up at Moomba. And then later. What happened later? Later. Later is the problem. Wasn’t I drinking bottled water and watching infomercials? The meat was turning and turning on its spit, dripping blood. And I was alone. But what happened before that? Shit. Fuckit. It’s OK not to remember what time you go to bed. But it’s not OK not to know who you fucked.
Fred is dead. Fred is dead. Fred is dead. Rena lies on the bed and falls asleep with the can of beer in her hand.
She is dreaming about her own apartment. In the dream the apartment has no outer walls and anyone who wants to can wander in at any time. In the dream she’s in bed sleeping, unable to open her eyes.
She can feel the people in the room with her, passing through, examining her, watching her breathe. She doesn’t mind them looking at her, but she wishes she had walls. Maybe if she moved to a different apartment, changed her address. But for some reason that isn’t possible. Yet.
A buzzer sounds and the gaping people disperse like a school of freaked-out fish. And now because they are gone, Rena opens her eyes. She can feel her eyes opening. She can do it. They are open. Except she’s still asleep. The buzzer sounds again. She understands she is awake with her eyes closed, dreaming that her eyes are open. The veil of slumber falls away, she can do it, she can open her eyes. Someone is buzzing her apartment.
She opens her eyes, rolls onto her side and checks the blocky numerals of the clock radio. Too early. The buzzer rings one more time. Maybe someone has sent me a huge bouquet of lilies. Paul used to do that. She staggers to the intercom.
“Yes?” Her voice croaky from cigarettes.
“Reba?”
“Excuse me?” Maybe it’s one of those garishly packaged invites to a new club. Anything to get your attention.
“Got something for you.”
Later she thinks, I should have known. If I had been listening more carefully, I would have figured it out. Maybe I did know and didn’t care because I knew this day was coming sooner or later, so it might as well be sooner. Rena pushes the buzzer button, finds a robe, splashes water on her face and waits by the front door.
Without checking the peephole, she lets the door drift open as far as the safety chain will allow. She thinks, I have to move to a doorman building. What if it’s some kind of lunatic or stalker asshole? The elevator doors clank open and Rena sees a man enter the hallway, get his bearings, then make his way toward her, checking each door, as if someone had shuffled the alphabetical enumeration, putting the “B” next to the “D” instead of “C.” She doesn’t recognize Frank until it’s too late.
Blindly, he comes directly to the gap and then seeing he is being observed, looks Rena in the eye and says, “I’m here to see Reba Cook.”
“Hi, Frank.”
“Reba? Cheez Louise. Have you gotten even taller? My god.”
“Frank, in New York, we call people before we visit.”
“Reba, can I come in, please?”
“No, you cannot fucking come in!”
“It’s important.”
“Hey, Frank, you’re not my boss anymore, OK? You’re not anything. You’re not even a bad memory. So why don’t you just turn around and go back to where you came from and leave me alone? ‘Come in’? Fuck you, come in! Go away, go as far away as you can!” She glances over her shoulder. The apartment looks like someone bombed it. Bits of tinfoil crumpled on the rug. A towel shoved into the corner. Coffee cups, beer cans, stacks of magazines. The home of a lunatic.
“Reba, there’s no reason to take that tone.”
“Uh-huh.” He’s looking at me different now, isn’t he? Now I’m someone special, not some dumb teller. “Frank, stop staring at me like that!”
“You’ve gotten prettier or something. But I don’t like what you’ve done to your eyebrows.”
Rena forces the pressure in her chest back down into her guts. “Frank, you just woke me up and I really really really really don’t want to see you.” She can feel a tantrum building. Don’t give him the satisfaction. She slows down. “In fact, you’re probably the last person in the world I want to see. So go away. And don’t come back. Ever.”
“You don’t have to be hurtful, Reba…I mean Rena, whatever. And besides, I didn’t think you’d want to see me, to tell you the truth you’re not the easiest person in the world to find. But I have my ways, I have my ways. There’s a certain benefit to being in financial services, despite what you think…by the way, the girls at the bank all send their love.”
“Oh, jeez.” Rena notices her own naked feet, her fingers clamped on the doorknob. It’s a metal door, I can shut it, latch it, he won’t be able to break it down. I can even call the police.
“Rena.”
“I’m closing the door now, Frank. Please don’t bother me again.” She shuts the door.
Through the peephole she sees him out there staring back, as if his black eyes could burn right through the door. “Rena, it’s about Billy.”
Frank waits in the hall for twenty minutes while she showers and dries her hair. She applies her makeup precisely. She doesn’t want to hear what he’s going to say, she wants to put it off as long as possible. Something bad has happened. But why is Frank the one to tell me, and why didn’t he just call? Anyway, if he’s going to see me, he should see me the way I really am, the new me.
In the end, all her attention to detail doesn’t make much difference. When she finally does let him in, he’s momentarily rocked by her new look. Then he settles into his formal, lizard-like aloofness.
Frank says, “I saw you in a magazine. In an ad.”
Rena says, “Tell me about Billy.” She has made coffee without pouring a cup for Frank. Then he asks for some and she serves him while he ogles the apartment, like he’s trying to figure out how much everything costs. Good, figure it out, Frank. Add it up, you could never afford it. I can take care of myself. I don’t need you or Billy or anybody.
Frank sips with his usual dark grace. “I would drive by the old place about once a week. Sometimes Billy’s van was there. Sometimes it wasn’t. About four months after you disappeared, I realized I hadn’t seen the van or Billy for a while. And being at the bank, I knew the mortgage and taxes and fire insurance were going unpaid. So I stopped up by the house. Must have been around February. Cold. I found a way in and sure enough, house was frozen solid. No pipes had burst, thank goodness, so I got your oil tank filled and refired the burner. Figured it might end up belonging to the bank, better keep it from ruination. Once it warmed up, the place didn’t smell so good. Mice had been doing their business. You know. So I thought the best thing would be to clean up a bit. Filled up three garbage bags with stuff.”
Rena watches Frank’s lips moving. What does he want me to say, “Thank you for keeping my house up so you can steal it from me?” Instead, she says, “Thank you, Frank.”
“No, well, it seemed like the right thing to do. Then I opened the fridge. Strange, even though the place was cold, the inside of the fridge was warm. Probably because of the mold and the fungus, I guess. They’re living organisms and they more or less give off heat. A milk container had burst open. Not pretty. Not pretty at all. And bad smelling.”
“Frank…”
“Too much for me to deal with right then. I got Annie to drop over a few days later and she took care of it. Says you have to throw that fridge away now. Once the mildew gets going, you can’t save it. She knows a guy who will come pick it up.”
“Tell me about Billy.”
“Got the electric back on for you, too.”
“Thank you.”
“I checked for leaks in the roof, and it’s tight.”
“So you don’t know where Billy is?”
“Well, see that’s the thing. I asked around and found out about those checks you were sending him. He’s been getting them forwarded to a mail drop here in New York. I sent him a letter, he never wrote back. Then the checks started coming back to the town post office. John, you know John, the postmaster? Well, he called me, wanted to know what he should do.”
“Frank, just tell me.”
“Well, it took me a while to find him. But see, your brother Billy’s in something called Creedmore. It’s a nuthouse.”
“You saw him there.”
“Oh, yeah. Got him to sign some papers. That’s how we’ve been getting the checks cashed. I’ve used some of the money for the house upkeep. Taxes are still in arrears, though. I’ve been taking care of that.”
“I don’t care about the fucking house, Frank! So you’re telling me Billy is in a hospital?”
“Looney bin. Especially for drug addicts and drunks. Especially those who commit crimes. Violent crimes. The rooms have locks on ’em.” Merriment dances in Frank’s eyes.
“How far is it from town?” He’s enjoying this.
“Oh, it’s not upstate. It’s right here. In New York City.”
“Oh God.” Billy came to find me. Got in a fight with a cop. And now I’m supposed to bail him out. “He got in trouble?”
“Something like that. I guess he put a couple of guys in the hospital and got kind of cut up himself. You should visit him, Reba.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s your brother and for legal reasons. I can cash checks made out to him. But you’re co-owner of the house.”
“I don’t want the house. You said it yourself, it isn’t worth diddly.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that. There’s liability, too. Not just ownership. Some kid falls down the old well. You’ll get your ass sued.”
“How did you find me, Frank?”
“It was easy. The checks. Bankers have access to information regular folks don’t have.”
“My bank told you where I lived?”
Frank’s eyes lie like puddles of dirty engine oil. “I’ll drive you out there. It would cheer him up.”
“Frank, if I live to be a hundred, I’m never getting in a car with you again. You leave me the address and I’ll find Billy on my own.”
Frank reveals his yellow teeth and stands. “It’s in the phone book, under mental institutions. And I won’t bother you no more. But you have to see him. It’s important even if you think it isn’t.”