by Maria Semple
Her friends applauded. Sally, an expert in detecting mixed emotion, knew their happiness was pure. “Oh, you’re just clapping because you want to get rid of me.”
“We do!” called a leather-faced granny.
“Not more than me!” said Sally. But really, she rued the thought of saying good-bye to these people, her unlikely tribe. Although she’d never be far. David had given her money to start the Sally Parry Foundation, which would raise money for hep C research by staging marathons. The first event would be a 10K run/walk whose finish line would be in David and Violet’s yard.
“I still need to wait another six months before I’m declared virus free,” she said. “And even then, it could reappear as another genotype. But I can’t help it, I feel lucky.” Sally laughed. “Not too lucky, mind you. The interferon just about killed me. I couldn’t work, which was especially horrible, because I’d just declared bankruptcy —” Sally couldn’t believe she’d actually admitted that. “That’s right. I’m diabetic, hep C positive, bankrupt, and single! Men in the audience, I’m available!” Once again, the group laughed.
Sally was still waiting for the complete nervous breakdown to hit her because of the divorce. As Violet had put it, You can’t secretly abort your husband’s baby because you think he’s retarded and expect to stay happily married. Tonight would be hard. Sally would be seeing Jeremy for the first time since they broke up.
Sally sighed. “I know as the speaker I’m supposed to share my difficulties. In my speech, I wrote about how horrible the interferon treatment was, with the vomiting and the fever and my sister-in-law having to hold me still while my brother gave me my insulin shots. And I became severely anemic, so I had to get blood transfusions, which terrified me. I think I ended up in the hospital four or five times. I lost count. But really, that was nothing.” She looked up. She’d lost the crowd again. “Okay, don’t believe me, but I’m diabetic. I had to have one of my toes amputated.” She shook her left flip-flop at the crowd. Several people craned their necks to get a look at her half-toe, the one with the ring on it. “It cost me my career as a ballerina. Next to that, interferon was a breeze!” She paused. “I didn’t plan on telling you about the hardest part for me, because it’s going to sound so stupid.” She looked at the faces. Nobody was going to make her say it. And so she said it. “The hardest part for me”—Sally’s voice filled with tears—“is not knowing how I got it.” She didn’t try to stop the tears. She knew nobody minded. Mascara was a thing of the past, anyway. “Most of you are ex-junkies, so you know how you got your hep C. And I’m just telling you, be grateful, okay? I’m serious. I’m sure you’re all thinking, Oh, she’s diabetic; she probably got infected from a needle. But I promise you, I never shared a needle once. I’ve never had a blood transfusion. Diabetics never even hear about hep C. It’s not something that happens.”
Sally sensed a presence. Violet had appeared and was standing against the back wall. Today was one of Violet’s workdays, an important one, as they were shooting an episode she had written. Sally had begged her not to drive all the way out to the valley just for this, but there she was, beside the sign that read BETWEEN BLACK AND WHITE ARE ALL THE COLORS OF THE RAINBOW. Violet winked.
Sally continued, “I would give anything to find out how this disease happened to me. I know it’s stinking thinking to say all I need is this one thing and then I can be happy. But I swear, if I could just know how I got infected, then I’d be okay.” Nobody in the room seemed to hold this against her. “Can I just say? When I first got here, I really hated you people.” Everyone laughed, Violet the loudest. “See! That’s why. You all laughed too much. Some of you looked so sick and scary, and I hated you for it. But I really, really hated those of you who didn’t look sick. I thought, How dare you walk around in your nice clothes and try to pass yourselves off as normal. Don’t you just love how I thought that?” Sally laughed. “I couldn’t see what was so funny about a bunch of dying people. Worse, a bunch of dying people who talked about how hep C was some frigging gift from God.”
Sally smiled at the housepainter who had spoken at that first meeting. “God is the ultimate physician,” he had said. “He is open for business twenty-fours hours a day and he still makes house calls.” At all the God talk, atheist Violet had twisted so much in her chair she practically tumbled to the floor.
“When I first came to this room,” Sally said, “I knew better than everyone. I had all the answers. I woke up every morning with a plan. But now . . .” Sally started crying again. “I hate you guys — you’ve turned me into one of you! Because I do feel so blessed by this disease. And for the first time in my life, I wake up and I don’t care what happens. I’m just so happy to be alive. Now I wake up and I say . . .” She raised her eyes, as if talking to God.
“Surprise me.”
VIOLET had been to enough Emmy ceremonies to know her way around the Shrine Auditorium. She hurried along the deserted red carpet, brandishing her jumbo ticket to the security people, who, at this late hour, just talked among themselves.
The banquet room was hushed and dim. Violet looked for her table number atop the wilted centerpieces. These weren’t the Primetime Emmys or the Technical Emmys, which had been held over the weekend. These were the Sports Emmys, held on the following Monday night. Regardless, it was a bunch of people in black-tie, unimpressed with the food. A familiar voice from the stage caught Violet’s attention.
“Seventeen years ago, our son Michael was diagnosed with autism.” It was Dan Marino.
Violet wove through the tables and slipped into the empty seat beside David. He’d saved her the best one, facing the stage. “Nice to see you, Ultra,” he whispered. “How was work?”
“It went well, thanks.” She kissed his cheek.
“Since 1992,” Dan Marino was saying, “the Dan Marino Foundation has raised over twenty million dollars to fund spectrum disorder research.”
Violet reached across David and squeezed Sally’s hand. In support of Jeremy, David had bought a table. It was brave of Sally to come. She flashed a smile at Violet, then returned her attention to the stage.
“Tonight,” said Dan Marino, “to present the First Annual Dan Marino Humanitarian Award, I’d like to introduce a tireless warrior in the fight for spectrum awareness.”
A waiter set a plate in front of Violet. “Spinach, potatoes, grilled mushrooms, and Diet Coke,” he said, then turned to David with trepidation. David nodded. Everyone else was eating dessert. David must have ordered it especially for Violet. She smiled. She was cared for.
“Please welcome Nora Ross,” Dan Marino said, then stepped back.
Violet’s heart still broke for Dan Marino’s Super Bowl loss to the Forty-Niners, his second year as a pro. “Never made it back to the Super Bowl,” Violet whispered to David. “Isn’t that so sad?” David shook his head in mock exasperation and gave her a kiss.
Nora looked as disheveled and fabulous as ever. She stood at the podium and spoke extemporaneously. “My husband and I are proud parents of a son who has autism. As Dan alluded to, I spend every waking minute raising money, having meetings, going in front of Congress, and in general, haranguing anyone who crosses my path into helping us find a cure. So you can imagine how pleased I was, six months ago, when I received the most extraordinary phone call. It was Jeremy White, saying he wanted to know more about Asperger’s.” Nora dropped her jaw and affected an exaggerated look of amazement. “I had met Jeremy a few times. He wasn’t one for chitchat, so of course I thought he was on the spectrum. But ask my husband; I think every neuro-typical is on the spectrum. I did know Jeremy was a television personality, so I asked him if we could use him as the face of our SOS campaign. He obliged, and we coordinated the media message with his Gap ad.”
Jeremy’s ad appeared on the screen. In it, he wore khakis and a button-down shirt, and flipped a coin. Across the top were the words YOU WILL BE FAMOUS. It was the same giant Jeremy that graced Sunset Boulevard, Times Square, and every other b
us in America.
Nora continued, “I got Jeremy in touch with a fabulous cognitive therapist. A few months later, he started driving for the first time in his life!”
Violet knew how hard this must be hitting Sally. She looked over. Sally’s smile was huge, her eyes fixed on Jeremy. She wore the same look as Dot did when she’d spot a woman breastfeeding in the park. Dot would walk over and stand an inch away, enthralled, delighted, not knowing it was socially unacceptable to look so nakedly interested in another person.
“The New York Times picked up the story,” Nora said, “and it’s been the most e-mailed article of the past month. That shows you just how hungry people are to learn about spectrum disorders. Jeremy White’s brave ‘coming out’ has been the tipping point that made people realize a person can be brilliant, successful, and still be on the spectrum. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome this year’s recipient of the Dan Marino Humanitarian Award, Jeremy White.”
Sally jumped to her feet and applauded. David and Violet did, too.
The day Violet had gone to Sally’s apartment to pick up her medicine and clothes, she came across the Hermès belt she had given her for her birthday. To Violet, it was an afterthought, something she’d thrown in because she knew Daniel would deliver the chocolates if she bought a gift from Hermès. There was the belt, proudly displayed on a shelf in Sally’s closet. It was coiled in the original orange box, the brown ribbon neatly tied around it. Seeing the tender care Sally had taken of a dumb belt somehow repelled Violet. She decided then to step up and love Sally well.
Everyone in the ballroom was on their feet. Although Jeremy had continued to write his column and appear as a commentator, he had never publicly addressed his Asperger’s. Jeremy stepped to the podium. There was a palpable sense in the room that tonight they would all witness a small piece of history. He leaned in to the microphone.
“Thank you,” he said, then turned and walked off the stage.
Dan Marino stepped up to the mike. “And people say there’s no difference between typicals and spectrum disorders!”
Nora thwacked Dan Marino with a program.
“Hey!” Dan Marino said. “I can joke. The guy picked twelve-and-two against the spread yesterday.”
Nora shoved Dan Marino, who sheepishly spoke in to the mike. “You’re cool, Jeremy?” he asked. “Right? You can take a joke.”
“Yes,” Jeremy said, off stage. Everyone applauded. Sally covered her face with her hands, smiling and shaking her head. The next presenter took the stage.
“I have to pee,” Violet told David. “Don’t let them take my food.” Violet passed the staging area where a regiment of caterers loaded coffee onto silver trays.
She stopped. Pascal was one of the waiters, his dreads tied back with a black ribbon. He saw Violet and smiled as if it were yesterday. She bounded over. “Pascal, bonsoir. Ça va bien?” She kissed him on both cheeks.
“Oui, Violet,” he said. “Et vous?”
“Ça va bien, merci.”
“Avez vous entendu qui est arrivé à Teddy?” he said.
“No!” Violet froze. “What happened?”
Sally appeared, grabbed Violet’s arm, and hung from it. “I’m freaking out,” Sally said. “Jeremy was so adorable. I want to go say hi. Will you come with me?”
“Sally —” Violet shook her arm loose.
“I’m sorry.” Sally stepped back with a frown.
“Did something happen?” Violet studied Pascal. He hesitated and threw a glance toward Sally. Violet said, “She’s okay.”
“It happened a couple of days ago,” Pascal said. “He was on the bus and started vomiting blood. An ambulance took him to the hospital.”
“Why?” Violet said. “What was wrong?”
“He went out.”
“Where did he go?”
“He got high, got drunk,” Sally volunteered. “That’s what they say. Who are you talking about?”
“My friend Teddy, the one with hep C.” It had been of great comfort to Sally when Violet first mentioned she had a friend who was infected and living a full life. Violet had marveled at the coincidence that two people she knew could have the virus. It made her especially grateful that her own test was negative. Sally had questioned Violet on and off about this infected friend, but out of respect for David, Violet kept it vague.
“First he shot drugs,” Pascal said. “Then he started drinking. And now he’s in LA County.”
“LA County?” Violet’s chest froze. “He hates LA County. He says people die there.”
“That’s what happens if you drink with hep C,” Sally said. “It’s a real no-no.”
“It was because of me.” Violet gulped. “Because of what I said at the wedding. Oh God, I should have apologized. It’s my fault.”
“He started shooting drugs for one reason,” Pascal said.
“Because of me,” Violet said.
“Because he had the cash.”
“What?” Violet asked.
“He had three thousand dollars cash in his junkie hands, and he went out and got high. It’s as simple as that.”
“I have to go,” Violet said.
“Violet, don’t,” Pascal said.
“I need to do this.” Violet took Sally’s hand. “I have to get David and I have to go.” She started off, then stopped. “Pascal?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
SALLY watched Violet hustle off and stood there with the French waiter. . . .
Violet’s mysterious friend with hep C.
He was shooting drugs.
He was at Sally’s wedding.
The frightening man who emerged from the bathroom.
The syringe in the wastebasket.
It had no cap on it.
That’s how Sally had contracted hep C.
He used my needle to get high at my wedding.
The waiter looked at Sally, as if waiting for her to speak. There was nothing to say. This guy — Teddy was his name — the one responsible for infecting Sally. He was now at LA County Hospital.
VIOLET ran-walked-ran down the hall of the ICU, reading the patients’ names off the doors. The nurse had told her Teddy’s room number less than a minute ago, but she’d already forgotten.
FLORES,L.
This is all my fault. Before you met me, you were playing jazz, golf, going to AA meetings. I shouldn’t have given you the money. I meant well, but I didn’t know. You were right; there’s a lot I’m not very smart about.
IDELSON, E.
This was my fault. I won’t stop until you’re sober and healthy again. I promise.
TOLL, J.
David can help your career. You can audition for one of his bands. Or, if touring would be too hard on you, you could be a session musician. That pays great.
REYES, T.
Violet stopped.
She’d gone back to the table to tell David the news. “What do you want me to do?” he asked. He didn’t press her for details. He didn’t get angry. He didn’t point out that in a marriage, you take care of the marriage, not the people outside the marriage. “I want to go,” she said. David put down his napkin and stood up. “I’m going with you.”
Teddy was on a respirator, a tube sloppily taped to his mouth with too much tape, in a too-big X. Both arms were tucked under a thin blanket. A bag of brown liquid hung from the bed rail. He was awake and staring at the ceiling. Several clear bags of drugs hung from an IV drip, their contents landing in his vein. Was one of them morphine? She hoped so; she knew how fond he was of the opiates. At Kate Mantilini, Violet had studied the whites of his eyes to see if she could detect jaundice. Now they were a solid yellow. Yellow and green, Green Bay Packer colors . . .
Teddy slowly turned his head in her direction, just like the first day they met, when she had run to his parked car. He had known it was her then; he had known that she would come. As he did now. And just like then, he nodded.
“Oh, fuck you,” Violet said with a l
augh. With that laugh, Teddy’s laugh, warmth filled her body. She sprang closer to the bed. Pieces of his hair were braided with colorful beads. “There’s your look,” she said. “It took you a while, but you finally found it.”
He rolled his eyes but didn’t try to speak. He studied her face. On the TV, Jay Mohr told Conan an unremarkable story about being given the wrong hotel room in Vegas. Violet let Teddy’s eyes wash over her, savoring what felt like his touch.
“You paged me?” A sandy-haired doctor breezed in.
“Hi,” Violet said, startling. “Yeah. Could you tell me what happened?”
The doctor looked at Teddy, then back at Violet. “I can only discuss a patient’s care with immediate family.”
“I’m his aunt,” Violet said.
The doctor frowned and turned to Teddy. “Do I have your consent to discuss your case with this woman?”
Teddy nodded.
“Is he going to be okay, Dr. —” Violet looked at the doctor’s name tag. “Dr. Molester?”
The doctor quickly corrected, “Moleester.”
Violet didn’t dare look at Teddy for fear they’d both erupt in laughter.
Dr. Molester unhooked Teddy’s chart from the foot of the bed and gave it a cursory look. “He was brought in two days ago with acute esophageal variceal hemorrhage, caused by alcoholic hepatitis.”
“I’m sorry, you’re going to have to dumb it down.”
“Mr. Reyes’s liver was already compromised from hepatitis C. Excessive alcohol consumption caused the liver to enlarge and block certain veins from draining. Pressure built up in the esophagus to the point where his esophageal veins popped, causing a massive bleed. He’s lucky he didn’t bleed to death.”
Teddy stared at the ceiling, a majestic beast, caged, yet not deigning to make eye contact with his captor.
“Why is he on a respirator?” Violet asked.
“We inserted a Blakemore tube in his esophagus to put pressure on the varices to stop the bleeding. It’s coming out tomorrow.”
“So it’s not a permanent condition? He’ll be off the respirator and able to talk?”
