Commitment Issues

by Wynn Wagner

  Somebody was saying that nobody knew if I was going to make it. I was fading in and out, but that wasn't the kind of phrase you wanted to hear somebody saying in one of the “in” moments. Somebody thought I might be dying. That would explain why they had called my mother to come to the hospital. It would explain why she decided to show up, even though she told me I was such a loser that she didn't ever want to see me again.

  "Sean?” It was a soft voice, male. It could have been Wyatt. I didn't remember Rafa's voice. What does an angel sound like?

  I grunted.

  "Hey, babe,” Wyatt said quietly in my ear. Wyatt! I remember him now, and he is with me in the hospital. It was definitely him, and I wanted to get up and hug him. Wow. Wyatt was with me. I wanted to tell him how happy that made me, but I couldn't move. I couldn't say anything. I couldn't even stay awake. There were beeps and ticks in the room. At one point, I heard a grating sound as something around my arm got tight. It really hurt. Too tight, but then it released all the pressure.

  That was it. I was so tired.

  Wyatt was there. How cool was that? I was so happy. So happy he was....

  Fade out. Fade in. Remind me to fire Rafa if I can find him. If Rafa was my angel, he had plenty of explaining to do. I didn't care how perfect he looked. I didn't care how much of a prima donna Rafa was. Angels weren't supposed to....

  Fade out. Fade in. Where was that sorry-ass angel Rafa?

  "Sean, honey?” I swear it sounded like my mother. We hadn't seen each other since she disowned me because of my drinking.

  Bits and pieces. Nothing real. I couldn't move. So tired.

  Fade out. Fade in. There's never a goddamn angel around when you need one. I didn't care if he was a good fuck, even I had my limits.

  Flowers. Somebody had sent a whole room full of flowers, and Wyatt was allergic—or at least I thought he was. I knew he would probably stay away because of that. Seeing Wyatt had to be a dream, because he couldn't take so much pollen. Even if he wanted to come visit me, he wouldn't be able to. Yeah, like he would want to visit.

  No, hold on. I think I remember his voice. Didn't I hear him?

  "I'm so sorry, but we still don't know if he is going to...."

  Fade out. Fade in. I wished that they'd move their discussion of my death outside my goddamn room. Hey, I'm in here! Fade out. Fade in. Can't move. Can't think. Can't talk.

  "Mr. Roberts?” It was a male voice on the side of the room that I couldn't see. I tried to twist around, but I couldn't see who was talking. “I'm Detective Mumble-lips."

  He was going to have to forgive me for not getting up or shaking his hand. Eyelids were so heavy.

  Oh, hey, I knew the feeling of morphine. I was hooked up to dope. Nice! I was probably addicted to morphine now, but I wasn't getting another desire chip. Fuck that.

  Detective something-or-other. Janie? Fade out. Bits and pieces. Can't move.

  "How's my favorite patient today?"

  It was Wyatt. It was really Wyatt, and he had called me his favorite patient. About all I could do was growl and try to clear my throat. I could feel him holding one of my hands, but it felt weird. My hand was so swollen, and my head was so full of dope.

  "You're lucky to be alive,” Wyatt said, but I didn't exactly feel lucky. “I'm lucky you're alive."

  Did he say he was lucky? Holy shit. I couldn't move. I couldn't talk. I could barely keep my eyes open. He picked up one of my hands, and he felt so warm and soft. Let it be Wyatt. Please let it be Wyatt.

  "Do you remember me, babe?” he asked.

  Like I could answer. I tried and tried, but no sounds came out of my mouth. I couldn't see him, but I knew he was there. I felt something around my hand. It was Wyatt clutching my hand between both of his palms.

  I wanted to tell him how much I loved him. I wanted him to know that I knew I had fucked everything up. Janie had said he wanted me, and I definitely wanted him. Just as we both wanted each other, and now that I had my head out of my ass, I was trapped in a hospital bed.

  Was I in a coma? I loved Wyatt so much that.... I felt something in my palm. You know when you stop the blood from going to an arm or leg, and you say that your arm “went to sleep?” That was what I felt. I knew that something was going on with my hand, but it was prickly and unclear. I thought Wyatt was holding my hand, but the truth was that I had no real idea what he was doing.

  "I love you,” I heard him say, and I wanted to melt. I wanted to cry. He said that he loved me, and I heard him. I loved him so much, and I had no way to....

  Flick. One of my fingers flicked a little. I worked so hard that something finally moved. It was so slight that he wouldn't have noticed.

  "Doctor!” he screamed. “He moved a finger. Doctor! Nurse! Somebody! Sean moved. He's awake, doctor. I felt him move. Doctor! Somebody!"

  It had to be Wyatt, because I had an overwhelming urge to write poetry about his spleen and the way his ear curved around under his hair. I remembered his swim trunks. Wow, I really remembered those, but I couldn't even move.

  Wyatt. Need Wyatt.

  Rafa. Need fucking angel so I can fire his sorry ass.

  Morphine. Need morphine. Better if I have.... Fade out.

  * * * *

  "Hi, Mr. Roberts. Do you know what day it is?"

  The voice was so bubbly that it made me nauseous. Gun... how do I get a gun? Why is somebody being so cheerful? Am I not paying enough to afford somebody who can whisper? Yeah, I'm hooked up to machines, and I'm passed out as much as I'm awake. Oh, and if I knew the fucking date, how the heck am I supposed to answer the question with all the tubes stuck into my throat? Do the fucking math, asshole. Do the fucking math.

  "It is Thursday, the twelfth of November,” said the jolly woman in hospital clothes. I thought I saw little flying elephants on her shirt. That had to be the morphine, because no self-respecting person above the age of six would wear flying elephants.

  Humpty-Dumpty's wife made a big deal about writing the date on a whiteboard directly across from my bed. It was screwed into the wall just below the television. I wished somebody would screw Miss Cheery to the wall, but somewhere outside my room.

  "Good morning, Mr. Roberts. My name is Louise,” she said as she scribbled on the whiteboard. I guess she was writing her name, or the rules for playing basketball in a confined space. If she tells me what my name is, I'm going for the closest scalpel.

  "Do you know your name?"

  Okay, that did it. Louise and I were official enemies. I wanted surgical instruments. The sharper, the better. One day I'd be free from this medical prison, and I'd be able to attack. The mongoose would strike down the cheerful cobra one day. Where was Don Corleone when you really needed a godfather? Somebody bring Marlon Brando in to make this elephant woman an offer. Get me plenty of scaffolding, because I'm taking her down to the mat. I don't even care if we don't have mats or that I can't move enough to look for the mats

  Morphine. I need more morphine. And I need a hunting knife or crossbow. At a minimum, I need a projectile. I could probably use a fishing rod with a rusty hook on the end. Dried worm residue would be a plus, of course. Something really caked onto the rust.

  "You've been here for five weeks, in case you didn't know that."

  Huh? What? Five weeks?

  Holy shit. Okay, Louise had redeemed herself for a few minutes. It was late September, and I had been in the bed for... oh, my apartment. I remembered the smoke. I remembered Labor Day and my angel, but that wasn't this year. This Labor Day was... oh, Wyatt got angry and....

  "Mr. Roberts,” Louise said. “The police really want to ask you some questions. Do you think you could spend five or ten minutes? They can ask you yes or no questions, and you can answer by blinking your eyes. Blink once for ‘yes’ and twice for ‘no'. Do you understand?"

  I blinked once. How many times do I blink to the officer to ask if I can borrow his mace and handcuffs?

  "Great,” Louise said. “You wait right here, honey. Don't
go anywhere, and I'll be right back."

  Go anywhere? Is this person for real? I mean, is she escaped from a psych unit, or is she actually on the payroll? If otherwise stable hospital administrators actually pay this person money, I will have to reevaluate my presence. I think that I may need to be moved to another hospital. I am in serious danger being in the same room with her. If she dispenses any of my drugs, I'm dead. That's probably why everybody was saying I might die. The woman with the flying elephants was trying to kill me. Oh my God, elephants... she's a fucking Republican. Somebody tell Miss Bubbly that Jesus rode a donkey into Jerusalem, not a goddamn elephant

  Great. Just great. I need morphine.

  "Mr. Roberts, I'm Detective Iacocca. Can you spare a few minutes?"

  I did my best to look cross-eyed at the detective's stupid question. He didn't understand, so I blinked once. I wondered if they had special classes on dim-witted questions at the police academy. If they did, maybe I could get a job teaching it.

  "Great, I am assuming that one blink means ‘yes’ and two blinks means ‘no'."

  I blinked again, and then I squinted to show him I was... well, I don't know what I was showing, but I thought he was being silly. Maybe he thought that I was in the hospital because of a lobotomy done badly. How do you tell a cop that you have full use of your brain even though you can only move your eyelids and some fingers and a few toes?

  "Yeah, that's the way the signals usually work, but I wanted to make sure. Now, do you have any idea what happened to you?"

  I blinked twice.

  "Very well. Somebody threw a bomb into your apartment."

  Bomb? Holy shit. I remembered smoke. No, wait. There was a chink or something. Yeah, it was broken glass. I didn't know how to say “broken glass” using my eyelids.

  "Do you know anybody who might do something like that?"

  I blinked twice again.

  "Okay, I didn't figure you would, but I have to ask. We've got some similarities to a bomb planted at an abortion clinic a couple of years ago. Bomb makers find a design they like, and they stick to that design. Do you know what an abortion clinic is?"

  I blinked once. Does this guy think my brain is an invalid like my body?

  "Sorry, sometimes people who have been through a big explosion have brain injuries. Nobody told me your status. Have you ever done any work around an abortion clinic or family planning group?"

  I blinked twice. The detective was picking up the pace of his questions, and I appreciated it.

  "I want to see if you think it was work-related or personal. I know you don't know who might have done this, but do you think it is more likely to be something related to your work on the radio?"

  I blinked once. Yeah, it almost had to be from work or just a random act. Beats me.

  "That's sort of what I thought too, Mr. Roberts. I have been working with your station and network management. They've kept all your letters coming to my office. I want to let you know about this because some of them were personal messages. We're saving all the letters for you, and we aren't trying to pry into your personal life. Wyatt has been a great help. He's been going through all your letters too. You have thousands of well-wishers, Mr. Roberts. Your broadcast must go out all over the country, because I have seen letters and well-wishers everywhere. The people who listen to you are shocked and angry at this, and I want you to know that we're doing everything we can to catch this guy."

  I blinked once.

  "Oh, and we are keeping an officer outside your room just in case. The fact that you survived has been all over the news, so we want to make sure that you stay safe. We've clamped down on the media to keep the bad guys from learning anything else. Wyatt is safe too. I think he sleeps up here most nights, so that lets us keep an eye on him. That's about all I have. You may have questions, but I hope they can wait for a little while. Unless... do you know Morse code?"

  I blinked twice.

  "Yeah, figured. Take care, Mr. Roberts. You've helped. We'll talk again."

  * * * *

  I had been attacked by somebody, and the police had no clue who it was. I had nothing, and the radio network couldn't provide much more. Wyatt said that a group of gay activists said they thought it was probably a revenge attack because of a congressman that I had been picking on, but they couldn't provide anything more than their opinion. The story probably helped them raise money or something.

  Wyatt camped out in my hospital room. Janie told me that he quit his job at the tattoo shop so he could stay at the hospital.

  I got stronger each day, but it was hard work. My toes got movement, followed by my ankle. I could move my wrists a few days after I could move all my fingers. There were some hospital staff members who came with various plans to make my day pure hell. They pushed me to work harder and harder. I worked, but mainly because I wanted to hold Wyatt.

  The doctor finally got the nurse to pull all the tubes out of my throat. Oh, my throat was so sore. I could only whisper. It hurt so much, but I tried.

  "I love you,” was the first thing that I said to him. It made him so happy that he put the side guard down and gave me a huge hug. That scandalized or worried the nurse, Miss Bubbly with her flying elephants.

  "Boys,” she said. “Wyatt, don't hurt the patient."

  I could barely speak, but I was able to tell Wyatt that I wanted a pistol. When the nurse reminded me that carrying a concealed weapon into a hospital was illegal, I told Wyatt to make sure the gun was in plain sight, possibly on the top of a silver tray.

  The nurse wouldn't be slowed. She was so bouncy I wanted somebody to nail her feet to the ground. Every day came the questions about today's date. She wanted to make sure that I knew my name and the name of the hospital. I told her that I not only knew all that, but I could recite the home and office phone numbers of quite a few lawyers and that she really needed to try not to bubble in my room.

  Wyatt was there to help bathe me. I was tres embarrassed the first time he lathered up my inner thigh, but I found that his hands were absolutely magic, and we all learned that my dick could still get hard. Nobody but Wyatt seemed upset or embarrassed.

  It started with my arms and legs, but I was starting to get more feeling each day. Nobody told me if I would ever be able to get up and walk or do a newscast, but I could tell my body was on the mend. I slept a lot. I would nap after being awake for only a few minutes.

  Oh, yeah. I had lost one toe and part of the little finger of my left hand. They never did find the toe, and a doctor told me there wasn't enough of my finger left to reattach. It was okay, because I'm not left-handed.

  Bzzzz went the air pump. They had me wearing some kind of pants that filled up with air every couple of minutes.

  Bzzzz went the cuff on my arm as it made a record of my blood pressure. I'm sure my blood pressure was sky high. Every time I calmed down, some other machine came to life and started to buzz.

  When a doctor told me he was in to remove the catheter, I noticed that Wyatt's eyes perked up. My little pervert still wanted to see somebody touching my winky. The doctor noticed too.

  "I'm sorry, who are you?"

  "I'm Wyatt. Wyatt Nelson."

  "What do you do, Mr. Nelson, and what is your relationship to Mr. Roberts?"

  "Mr. Roberts? I sleep with him."

  "I see. I'm going to need you to step outside for a moment."

  "Why?” Wyatt asked innocently.

  "I need to work with Mr. Roberts for a moment. Please, it's just standard hospital procedure. Only actual relatives can be in the room during procedures."

  "Who are you?” Wyatt asked.

  "Dr. Jones, Dr. Samuel Jones."

  "And you're a staff doctor here?"

  "I am an intern."

  "Fascinating. An intern? And the intern is instructing me on what is and is not an ‘actual relative'?"

  "Sir, I must—"

  "What you must do is run along,” Wyatt said. “What you need to do is send an actual doctor to see Mr. Ro
berts. Feel free to quote me, but make sure you tell the whole story. If you don't, you can count on me filling in what you leave out. Tell them that I won't be lectured by somebody who isn't an actual doctor. Learn some manners, but do it on your own time. My husband will only be touched by an actual doctor. Now, scoot."

  Goooooooooooooooooal. Wyatt shoots and scores!

  "But,” the intern said as he looked my way. He assumed that I would control Wyatt. He was wrong.

  "Bye bye,” I mouthed. “Bye bye."

  Wyatt blew on the end of a finger like he was holding a pistol, and then he put his imaginary pistol into his waist.

  "I can get that pesky tube out, you know,” Wyatt grinned.

  I shook my head and tried to say no. Nothing came out of my mouth. I squinted my eyes until I saw the edge of his lips turn upward.

  They made me wait until the next day to get the catheter out. My regular doctor was angry when he found that it was still in place. He read the chart to see what was wrong.

  "Oh, you did not,” he chuckled.

  "He did,” I whispered.

  "You did? You really did? Oh, for crying out loud... I may want to hire you someday,” the doctor laughed. “I can't wait to hear the story. I'm sure it's been embellished a few times in the doctor's lounge. Wyatt, if anybody else gives you trouble about being here, let me know. We have so many patients who have nobody that it makes me really pissed to see an intern try to run you off. Stand your ground, boy. I got your back."

  The doctor left, and a male nurse came in. He seemed to know Wyatt.

  "You want to help?” the nurse asked. I growled, but the boys ignored me.

  "Don't harm my man,” Wyatt said. “You're working on a sensitive area."

  "I promise. Catheters are my specialty, you know. I take great—” and then he started pulling. Oh my God, that burns. No warning. No anything. Fortunately, it didn't last long, but holy shit, that was real, honest-to-gosh pain.

  "Specialty indeed,” I whispered. “Hit the button first. I need morphine. Wyatt, dear, did you bring my pepper spray or anthrax aerosol?"

  "Oh, thanks for taking Dr. Jones down a peg or two,” the nurse said with a big grin. “The staff can't stand him. You go, girl."