California Angel

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  "I don't know," Toy said weakly, his presence in the room oppressive, particularly when she was prostrate in a hospital bed looking up at him. He seemed so big, so authoritative, the look out of his eyes so menacing. She tried to push herself to a sitting position, then realized she couldn't use her hands. She fell back on the pillow. Stephen leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.

  Toy cut her eyes to Sylvia, but the woman was silent. The look on her face told Toy that Stephen had already jumped all over her, and was probably blaming her for enticing Toy to come on the trip.

  Seeing them both standing there staring at her like she was someone from another planet, Toy turned to Sylvia. "Do you mind if Stephen and I have a word alone?" she said. "There's no reason to get you involved any more than you already are."

  "No problem," Sylvia said, quickly leaving the room. Then she stuck her head back in and added, "I'll be right outside the door. Call me if you need me."

  Toy couldn't stop herself and tears were soon streaming down her face. She was suddenly confused and miserable, whereas before she

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  had been content and peaceful. Already they had taken her down for an MRI, and any time now, they would be coming to submit her to more tests. More needles, X rays, strange machines and chalky fluids she'd have to swallow. What were they ultimately going to tell her? That her heart was broken? That she was about to die? Noticing her husband's stern gaze, she only hoped her death would come quickly.

  "It's okay," he said, his voice softening as he saw the tears on her face. Knowing she couldn't use her hands, Stephen removed a tissue from the nightstand and wiped her eyes. "Don't cry. We're going to figure this out now. I'm here. As soon as they say you're able, we'll fly home."

  "There was this fire," she said, blubbering incoherently. "I was there. I was with a lot of kids in this field. One of the little boys . . ."

  '"What are you talking about, Toy?" Stephen said, tilting his head sideways. "Just a minute, okay? Let me check your chart."

  Her husband darted down the hall, the door swinging behind him. A short time later he returned. "The burns on your hands are not that bad. Most of them are second- and third-degree. You have one first-degree burn on your left palm. They're giving you antibiotics to circumvent infection. The chart said they also gave you a shot for pain. Did it help?"

  "Yes," Toy said groggily. The shot had made her feel dreamy and disconnected, but now that someone was in the room, she realized it also made her want to talk. "What's wrong with me? Why is all this happening to me?"

  "I don't know," Stephen said. "Where was this field? How did you get those burns? Sylvia thought you were in the bed all night. Did you go out on the streets by yourself? If so, why?"

  "I don't know where the field was," Toy said, blinking as she tried to make the dream crystallize again in her mind. "But I think it was a school that was burning. There were maybe fifteen or twenty children and no adults. A spark ignited the grass and this child's shirt caught fire. I had to reach into the fire to get him. That must be when I got burned."

  "There are no fields anywhere near here," Stephen said, incredulous. "'You're in Manhattan, Toy." Then he thought of something. "Were you in Central Park perhaps?""

  Her eyes roamed around the room, droopy and drugged. "Maybe.''

  "There's no school in Central Park, not that I know of. There's the ice skating rink. There could be children there."

  Toy just looked at him. She didn't know what to say, what to believe. Just then Dr. Esteban entered the room. Approaching the bed, he nodded at Stephen and proceeded to check Toy's pulse, the ice packs, the IV. Then he smiled down at her. "Did that shot ease the pain?"

  "Yes," Toy said. "When can I go home? I want to go home."

  "Soon," he said, glancing over at Stephen. "Perhaps we should step outside?"

  Together they stepped outside the room, and Stephen fell back against the wall. Sylvia saw them from the bench where she was waiting and walked over to hear what they were saying.

  "She just told me she was in a fire," Stephen told the doctor. "A fire in a field somewhere. She doesn't know where, but there were children. That's how she says she got burned."

  "I know," Esteban said, his eyes on the floor. "She told me the same thing. I called the fire department, and the only fire they had this morning was in an apartment complex in the Bronx. It wasn't occupied. Do you think she somehow got all the way to the Bronx and was inside that building, maybe sleeping or something?"

  "How would I know?" Stephen snapped. "This is all just insane. First her heart stops and then she suddenly turns up with burns. I have no idea what's going on." He gave Sylvia a harsh glance, as if to say, she knew but was holding back the information to spite him. He'd lost his cool with her in the hotel room, but he refused to apologize.

  "I promise, Stephen," Sylvia said tensely. "I don't know any more than you do. All I know is we both went to bed, and when I woke up I heard her talking. I just thought she was talking in her sleep. She said something like, 'Hurry. Go faster.' I'm not certain of the exact words."

  Dr. Esteban rubbed a long, tapered finger alongside his nose as he was thinking. "I have an idea. A lot of street people light fires in trash cans to stay warm. If your wife was in some kind of sleep state or trance state, possibly she held her hands over the flames and burned them this way. Or maybe she accidently touched a trash barrel that was hot, had been burning only a few minutes before."

  Stephen thought Esteban's statement made sense. It made more sense than his wife's story about a burning school and children in a field, particularly since the fire department had no report of such an

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  incident. But right now, figuring out how his wife had been burned wasn't as important as figuring out why she had gone into cardiac arrest. "When can I take her back to Los Angeles? I have a surgical practice, you know?" Stephen turned his head and looked at the door to the room. "At least I used to have a surgical practice."

  "Not for a few days. It wouldn't be wise. The flight is over five hours. What if she suffered another cardiac incident on the plane? And she should have a full round of antibiotics for those burns."

  "If you're so concerned about her heart," Stephen said to the doctor, his eyes hard and accusing, "then why isn't she hooked up to an EKG right now?"

  "Look," Sylvia interjected, having had her fill of Dr. Stephen Johnson. "I'm going, okay? Toy doesn't need me now that you're here, and I'm just in your way."

  "That's fine with me," Stephen said snootily, watching as Sylvia reentered Toy's room to tell her she was leaving.

  Sylvia stepped up to Toy's bed and brushed her hair off her face. "Sweetie," she said softly, "I told Stephen I was going to leave, but if you want me to stay, I will."

  "Where are you going?" Toy asked.

  "Well, my nephew's Bar Mitzvah is tomorrow morning, so I guess I'll spend tonight in Brooklyn at my brother's house and check out of the hotel. I'll tell the hotel to lock up your suitcase and Stephen can pick it up later." She paused and then continued. "As soon as Dr. Esteban gives him the word, Stephen is going to take you back to California. From what he told me earlier, you might be able to leave by tomorrow morning."

  "I ruined your trip, didn't I?" Toy said, sighing deeply. "I'm sorry, Sylvia."

  "Hey," Sylvia said, giving Toy a weak smile, "don't worry about that. Just get well. We'll take another trip somewhere down the line."

  "What am I going to do?" Toy asked. "You know, about Stephen? I don't know if I want to go back with him to California."

  Sylvia shook her head. "I can't get involved in this, Toy," she told her. "I mean, I certainly didn't ask you to go on this trip so I could break up your marriage."

  "But it isn't just Stephen," Toy said excitedly. "Something's going on, Sylvia. I'm certain I was in a fire. I remember trying to rescue this child ... a little boy. It has to be true. If it isn't true, how did I get these burns?"

  "I wish I knew, T
oy," Sylvia said, leaning down to kiss her forehead. Then she removed a piece of paper and left it on the table by the bed. "This is my brother's number in Brooklyn. Call me if you need me, okay?"

  Just as Sylvia was turning to leave, Stephen stepped into the room. She walked up to him and tapped him on the chest with her finger. "You better be good to her, buddy," she said forcefully. "Whether you realize it or not, this is one special lady you married." Then she glanced over her shoulder at Toy and walked out of the room.

  Sarah rang the buzzer for Raymond's loft, but there was no answer. Stepping back to the sidewalk, she peered up at the windows and the metal fire escape. His window was open and she could see the curtains moving in the breeze, but at the same time it was raining and she was frightened that she would slip and fall on the fire escape. Finally she braced herself and started climbing.

  When she got to the window, she stuck her head in and yelled, "Raymond, it's me. Sarah. I'm coming in, okay?"

  As Sarah's eyes adjusted to the darkness of the loft, she could see a figure on the bed. Her stomach immediately rolled over and her heart started racing. She was certain he was dead. Quickly crawling through the window, she rushed to the bed. "Raymond, are you okay? Are you sick? Did something happen?"

  He was perfectly still, his eyes open but unseeing, his head turned slightly to the side. She shook his shoulder, but still he refused to speak to her or acknowledge her presence. She could see his chest rising and falling, however, and was relieved that he was all right.

  Shadows danced all around her, forbidding and ugly. Outside, the afternoon shower had suddenly turned into a torrential downpour. Rain splashed against the windows just as a loud crack of thunder rang out. A few seconds later, the entire loft was illuminated with a quick flash of lightning, revealing a poignant, surreal scene: the big bed in the center of the open space, the solitary figure of a man. He was emitting soft moaning sounds while the images on the canvases poised around the room watched, all bearing identical faces. One life-size painting from years ago was propped up against the wall right behind Raymond's bed like a headboard. An angel, its enormous wings were stretched wide, and the angel's head was thrust forward away from its shoulders as if she were trying to step from the canvas to comfort the man below. The hair was a brilliant yet delicate shade of reddish gold, and the angel was dressed in a navy blue

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  T-shirt, with the baseball team California Angels emblazoned on the front.

  "You're mad at me, I realize," Sarah said softly, taking a seat at the fool of his bed. "When you didn't come to work, I got worried. I'm sorry we ended this morning on a sour note."

  The body on the bed remained in the same position. Not a muscle in his body moved. Sarah waved her hands in front of his face, but still he didn't move or speak. "Raymond," she said, "please talk to me, let me be your friend. I want to help you. I might not have acted like it this morning, but I really do."

  There was nothing.

  Sarah looked around the room, uncertain what she should do next. Going to the sink, she soaked a dish towel in cold water from the tap and then returned and wiped his face with it. "There," she said, pleased with herself, "doesn't that feel better?"

  When he still didn't respond, she got in the bed with him and put her arms around his waist from the back, holding him tightly, hoping it would make him feel secure. Then she just remained there, as still as he, waiting for him to speak to her. No matter how long it took, she decided, she was going to wait.

  At ten o'clock that night, Sarah gave up. It was pitch-dark in the loft, and Raymond had not spoken, moved, or in any way communicated with her. He almost seemed to be in a coma, and Sarah wondered if she should call an ambulance or try to take him to a doctor. Quietly getting out of the bed, she found the yellow pages in the kitchen. She was flipping through them when she saw him slowly rise from the bed and walk casually to the bathroom as if nothing whatsoever was wrong. Sarah dropped the phone book and scurried down the hall after him.

  He was urinating in the toilet, his back to her.

  "Are you going to talk to me now?" she said. "God, I thought you were going to do something awful to yourself. I was scared to death. Why didn't you come to work?"

  Zipping up his pants, Raymond turned and walked right past her out of the bathroom, a dazed look in his eyes. Then he squatted over his knees in a far corner of the room, his hands making small circles on the wood floor.

  '"Well," Sarah said, stamping her feet, deciding to try a different tactic, "you're not sick and you obviously don't want to talk to me, so I'll just leave." Spinning around, she started marching to the door,

  thinking Raymond would stop her. He didn't. At the door she looked back at him, unable to leave.

  Sarah rushed over to him, getting on her hands and knees and embracing him. "I don't know what's wrong with you," she said gently, "but I'm not going to let you down, leave you here alone. Right now I'm going to go out and get you some food. Once you eat, you'll feel much better."

  Sarah left the loft to get him something to eat, with a backward glance over her shoulder. There was something about this man that touched her heart. She suddenly had a terrifying feeling, more frightening than the fact that Raymond was possibly suicidal and might end up like her brother. At twenty-four, Sarah Mendleson was drifting. The year before she had been a junior at Long Island University, but a love affair turned sour and her guilt over her brother's suicide had pulled her down and caused her to drop out. She had sunk to the very bottom, working in a cheap diner, back living with her parents, all of them squabbling and miserable. But with her new job and new living environment in Queens, Sarah had hoped that she could get herself together and return to school the following fall. Right now, however, returning to school didn't seem as important as it had a few days ago. If she was reading her feelings correctly, which she was certain she was, she knew she had just developed a problem, one that could easily derail not only her college plans but all her plans.

  Sarah was falling in love.

  Toy was resting and Stephen was reading the newspaper, his chair pushed up next to her hospital bed. He had already made reservations on a flight back to Los Angeles the following day. He was going to take Toy home, then they would continue the testing. Stephen would personally research his medical books, all unusual and rare diseases, possibly even contact the American Medical Association and ask for their assistance. They couldn't take the chance that Toy's heart would spontaneously arrest again, particularly in a place where there would be no one to revive her.

  "I'm thirsty," Toy said, opening her eyes.

  Stephen got up and poured her some ice water from a pitcher by the bed. "How do you feel? You slept good. You've been out of it for two hours now."

  "I feel fine," she said, gulping the water, trying to keep it from spilling down her chin. Both of her hands were still bandaged. "I just want to use my hands. I feel so helpless."

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  "I know, Toy. That's why I'm here. Are you hungry? They brought your dinner tray but I sent it away. I thought it was better to let you sleep. I ean go to the coffee shop and get you a sandwich if you want."

  "No," Toy said, shaking her head. She had no appetite at all. She just wanted to get out of the bed and go on with her life. All she could think of was the humiliating incident in the restaurant, everyone staring at her, laughing at her like she was a beggar off the streets. If everyone could spend just one day like that, she told herself, they might be more sympathetic to the plight of the homeless.

  "Want to read the paper?" Stephen said. "I can prop you up on the pillows and turn the pages for you." Then he looked up at the television. "Maybe it would be easier to watch TV." He picked up the remote control attached to her bed and flicked on the set, immediately turning it to Cable News Network, hoping he could catch some local news from Los Angeles.

  Stephen stroked Toy's arm gently, his eyes on the set. Toy was staring at the screen but not payin
g attention. The volume was low, but the image was one of a burning building, people in a field, rescue workers bending down over a small child. Stephen turned away from the set long enough to find the remote control and raise the volume. He'd seen something that perked his interest, something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

  ". . . as fire ravaged this wooden schoolhouse in rural Kansas, tragically claiming the lives of three teachers, a small boy was carried to safety after his clothes caught on fire by what officials are calling an unidentified woman. Arson investigators are on the scene and indicate the fire was possibly set by a youngster playing with matches. Nineteen children escaped without serious injury. Little Jason Cum-mings, who suffered severe burns on his back and chest, is listed in stable condition at Methodist Hospital in Topeka. His mother . . ."

  Stephen was listening and now saw Toy. She was moving around in the bed, her eyes glued on the screen, her mouth open and gaping. "What's wrong? Are you in pain?"

  "Look," Toy said. "The fire. The schoolhouse. The children. The boy."

  Turning back to the television, Stephen listened and watched. There was a middle-aged woman on the screen talking to a reporter.

  "Mrs. Cummings, who was the woman who saved your son? Have the police discovered her identity yet?"

  "No," Mrs. Cummings said, wringing her hands as she spoke, "she

  was there and then she just disappeared. She saved my boy's life." She spoke directly to the camera. "If you are out there somewhere," she said, a tear escaping and making its way down her ruddy cheek, "I want to thank you. Jason is asking for you. He keeps crying for his angel. Please contact us here at the hospital. We'd really appreciate it."

  The woman's face disappeared, and the newscaster began another story. Stephen turned the set off and faced his wife. "Toy, this was in Kansas. Didn't you hear what they said? It couldn't be the same fire. You're in Manhattan. Don't you know what city you are in?"