by Liza Palmer
“Hahahahahahaha!” A little boy maniacally laughs. I take a step back.
“Um… I… uh…” I stutter.
“Owen, dear. Owen? Honey, who is it?” a voice calls from the depths of the house. The little boy gives me the once-over—taking my measure. He’s unimpressed.
“Some blonde lady selling coffee,” Owen yells. I look at the commuter mug in my hand. Jesus.
“Blonde lady selling coffee? Well, Owen, dear, I’ve nev—” The gray-haired woman walks down the long hallway, trying to work out the ridiculous description. She stops once she sees me.
“Hi,” I manage.
“Oh, selling coffee! Oh—Owen, this is our neighbor. Grace Hawkes, right?” the gray-haired woman asks. I’m stunned she knows my name.
“Yes, ma’am,” I answer.
“Ma’am nothing. I’m Louise. Won’t you come in?” She opens the door as Owen skips down the long hallway.
“Oh, no thank you… Louise. I wanted to ask you a favor. I know I don’t know you very well, I’m not a big… I’m not a big waver,” I say, holding my non-waving hand up as proof.
“Oh, don’t be silly. What can I help you with?” Louise asks.
“Grammy!!!!! They’re showing how they build the floats!!! They’re showing how they build the floats!!!” Owen screams from the back of the house.
“We’re going to the Rose Parade—it’s his first time. He’s quite excited. What can I do for you, dear?” Louise asks.
“I have to go out of town and I really don’t know for how long. My dad has had a stroke—I don’t really know him that well, so it’s not like… He left when I was thirteen. Well, he was asked to leave. He had a thing for other women… a lot of other women. He just never looked back, though. You can not be a good husband, but why does that mean you have to be a bad dad? I don’t know… so now I have to head up to Ojai and… well, see how he’s doing and see my family and I haven’t seen them for around five years, you know? Ever since my mom died… It’s been five years since she died and I kind of flipped out and just walked away… ran away, really. From everyone. Like he did. I didn’t put that together until this morning. Weird, huh? Yeah… I had this great guy, too. Pitch-black eyes and he was just this… Anyway, I have a new boyfriend now. He’s kind of a monkeyhander—”
Louise cuts in, “Monkey what?”
“A monkeyh—ugh, never mind. It’s too hard to explain. So… now… I’m uh… I’m driving right up there and I just wanted to know if you could pick up my mail… or something,” I finish, my hands wound around the backpack straps.
Louise looks stunned.
“Grammy, the floats!!!!” Owen’s voice wafts down the hallway.
“So your mail?” Louise concludes.
“Yes,” I answer.
“I can do that,” Louise warily says.
“Thank you. I really appreciate it,” I say, taking her hand and shaking it.
“Take care, now,” Louise says, taking her hand back.
“I will. I will. Thank you,” I say, breathing easier. Louise walks back into her house. I turn to walk back down the pathway.
I hear the door slam behind me.
And then there’s no looking back.
“Ray Hawkes. He’s in the ICU.” I put my hands on the elementary-school-style lectern in the minuscule lobby of St. Joseph’s Hospital. Our family always goes to the Huntington Hospital in Pasadena, otherwise known as the Caesars Palace of hospitals. If the Huntington Hospital is Caesars Palace, then St. Joseph’s is the 7-Eleven with a couple of slot machines just across the Nevada state line.
Tucked away in the rolling countryside northeast of Los Angeles, dotted with oak trees and babbling brooks, Ojai is downright idyllic. An ironic setting for such a reunion. I remember being shocked to find out it was spelled Ojai, thinking, it was spelled: Oh, hi. Like a casual greeting. Oh, hi. Certainly not its beautiful Chumash Indian meaning: “valley of the moon.”
Two candy stripers stand behind the lectern.
“Ray Hawkes?” I repeat again. One candy striper picks up a plastic clipboard and flips through the pages.
“He’s in the ICU,” the other candy striper says. I breathe deeply and stare at the two girls, hoping they’ll figure out from my silence—and the fact that I just said that—that they’re not really helping. I’m just asking for directions to the ICU. I stare. And wait. They stare back. I finally have to give up and admit I can’t win this staring contest. They’re probably both thinking about the color yellow right now.
“And where might that be?” I ask.
“Fourth floor. Take the elevator, make a right, two quick lefts and then another right,” one of the candy stripers instructs. I do the math in my head. Have they just told me to go on a wild-goose chase by directing me to walk in a perfect circle? I catch myself doing some odd half-hokey-pokey-like movement as I try to work out the whole right, left, left, right thing. I hitch my purse tightly on my shoulder and head for the elevator, repeating right, left, left, right… right, left, left, right…
As I walk toward the elevator, it finally dawns on me where I am. The chaos of the morning has slowed down and I find myself here—zombielike in the lobby of St. Joseph’s Hospital in Ojai, California. What’s waiting for me at the other end of these rights and lefts?
A harried blonde lady and a young boy stand next to the elevator. She’s rolling a child-sized piece of luggage behind her. They both look at the elevator button, then at me, then back at the elevator button. It’s that awkward moment where you ask yourself, has the other person actually pushed the call button—or are we all just standing here waiting for nothing? There’s no light on the button indicating that it’s been pushed. Is she running through the possibilities? If she walks up and presses it and the light is broken—then she’s insinuating that I’m the type of person who stands in front of elevators willing them to open with my mind. The little boy jabs the button with a whirlwind of energy. He can’t help himself.
“Alec, I’m sure the lady—” The elevator door dings open. They seem startled and no longer make eye contact with me as they step into the elevator. The woman holds her arm in front of the elevator door, holding it open for me.
“Oh, yeah—sorry. Sorry,” I say, stepping into the elevator.
“Which floor? Alec likes to push the buttons,” the woman says, eyeing my outstretched arm.
“Four, please. Thanks,” I say, bringing my arm back down to my side. The woman and boy step to the far side of the elevator. Away from me. I’m relieved when I feel the buzz of my BlackBerry saying that I’ve got a message. It’s from Tim.
Good luck today. Call when you get a chance.
The door dings open and they rush out. My stomach lurches as the elevator climbs.
Thanks. I’ll call when I get to the B&B, I type. I booked a room at a little bed-and-breakfast I found on the Internet when I stopped by the office to pick up some files.
The elevator dings open on the fourth floor. I hit send and pocket my BlackBerry.
I’m immediately hit with that unmistakable hospital smell. My entire body convulses. I can’t do this. I need a bathroom. Not again, Jesus—not again. I’m unable to cry, but apparently I’ve now started vomiting like a kitten with a hairball every time an emotional situation arises. Good to know.
I close and lock the door to the bathroom. Why are all hospital bathrooms so depressing? I’m forced to stop taking in my surroundings so I can retch into the toilet. I try to keep my hands behind my back while holding my breath. My purse slides down my arm and touches the floor—I’ll have to burn that later. I quickly grab some paper towels and put them just under my hands.
The smell of the hospital permeates the bathroom. Flashing, shooting images of long hallways and a doctor walking toward me. Wringing her hands, approaching families—hopeful families. Families that are about to be broken.
“Evelyn Hawkes, please… she would have been brought in about fifteen minutes ago?” I ask, breathless.
“Yes, Hawkes, with an e. Evelyn Hawkes? Car accident,” I say, looking around the waiting room for the rest of my family.
“Come on through,” the woman says, buzzing the large double doors open.
I walk through and am hit with that smell: sickness they try to cover up with cleaning products. Bustling nurses and doctors zip from one room to another, gurneys line the halls, and everyone not in scrubs seems confused… lost somehow. We shouldn’t be here. No one should be here.
“Grace!?” Leo calls from the far end of the long hallway. He slips and slides down in blue paper booties, no doubt provided by the hospital, because I’m sure Leo showed up barefoot. I catch his full weight and prop him back up.
“Hey… hey… it’s going to be fine. It was just a car. She was in that giant flower truck, Leo. She’s going to be—” I soothe, rocking him back and forth.
“She’s their floral designer, why was she even driving that thing?” Leo asks, before I can finish my speech. I’m sure she is going to be rolled out in a little wheelchair with a sling around her arm and a “How do you like that?” look on her face any minute.
“Maybe someone didn’t come in to work. She’ll tell us when we’re allowed to see her,” I answer, looking down the long hallway.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Leo sighs.
“Hey,” Abigail says, walking down the long hallway with Manny and Evie: the namesake. At just ten, she’s barely even allowed to be back here. The detached preteen is doing her best to not look scared. Manny is wearing a company polo tucked into dress slacks. Abigail’s loafers squeak on the hospital’s clean floor as she walks toward us. I can see Abigail caressing Evie’s hand as she gets closer. Evie’s eyes dart from one room to another. She holds on to Abigail’s hand tightly.
“They haven’t come out yet,” Leo says, his voice tight. I am calm.
“Okay… okay… we’re all here. Huston is out front filling out some paperwork. It was just a car and she was in that giant flower truck,” Abigail asserts, playfully shaking Evie’s hand around. Evie’s face remains creased with worry.
“Why was she even driving that thing?” Leo asks again.
“Did anyone talk to her yet?” I ask, hopeful.
“I talked to her this morning,” Abigail says. We all nod. We’ve all talked to her this morning. We all talk every morning. We all talk every day.
“Have you heard anything yet?” Huston asks, emerging through the double doors. Huston’s frame takes up the long, sterile hallway. He immediately walks over to me.
“No, nothing,” I answer, Leo still curled into every nook and cranny.
“She was in that giant flower truck. She’s gonna be fine,” Leo adds. I smile again. This is nothing.
“The woman at the front desk didn’t say anything?” Abigail asks. Evie is biting her fingernails, plunging her entire hand into her mouth. Deeper and deeper in. Manny gently pulls Evie’s hand out of her mouth and gives it a tender kiss. Evie smiles, embarrassed. Manny holds her hand in his.
“She was in that giant flower truck,” Huston says.
“That’s what I said,” I say, smiling. Huston averts his eyes and I can see his jaw clenching… over and over. I pull Leo close.
“Why was she even driving that thing?” Leo’s voice is growing panicked.
“She was in that giant flower truck,” Huston says again, still nodding.
A doctor turns the corner… walking down that long hallway. She’s wringing her hands.
There’s no sound, just muffled voices and distant beeping. I can feel my family tighten around me. Leo folds into me even more as Abigail holds on to Manny and Evie. Huston calmly walks forward to meet the doctor, extending his hand in introduction.
“Are you Evelyn Hawkes’ family?” the doctor starts. Huston nods.
Oh God.
“They did everything they could. Evelyn… your mom? Your mom died at the scene. I’m so sorry,” the doctor says.
Everything goes black.
The next thing you know, you’re dry-heaving into a hospital toilet five years later.
chapter seven
I can’t hide out in this bathroom forever. I came up here to show Dad that I’m Mom’s kid; I have to get myself together. I douse my face with water, slurping up handfuls. I pull my BlackBerry out of my pocket and dial. Straight to voice mail.
“This is Tim Barnes of Marovish, Marino and Barnes. I’m unable to take your call; please leave your name and number and I’ll return your call as soon as I am able.” I wait for the beep.
“Hey… it’s me. I’m at the hospital, well in the bathroom… haven’t gone in yet. Haven’t seen anyone yet. I have thrown up, though. So, there’s that. Okay… I’d better get out there. I’ll talk to you soon. Bye,” I say, hanging up. I pocket the BlackBerry. With no further tasks before me, in or around this bathroom, I have no choice but to exit.
I open the bathroom door and look out into a maze of long hallways. More goddamn hallways. Each one dotted with door after door of suffering.
I make a right.
I try not to look into the rooms as I walk by, but I can’t seem to help myself. Bed after bed filled with people desperate to be out of there, to not be in pain anymore. Families clustered around the beds, trying to act lighthearted and unworried. But even from the hallway I can see their hushed conversations and hidden side glances to one another, signaling a bad turn.
I make a left.
I pass a bustling nurse’s station. They don’t bother looking up as I pass. Clipboards, monitors and the business of healing have their full attention.
“Gracie?” The man’s voice behind me is unmistakable. That giggly crumble. Funny, I don’t smell marijuana or body odor. I must have gotten him on “Shower Day.” Maybe that air freshener isn’t needed after all.
“Grace?” Leo repeats. I turn around slowly, twisting my mouth into a smile, trying, imploring my face to take its horrified look somewhere else.
“Leo?” I manage. The man who stands before me now… well, is simply not my brother. Is it?
“I thought that was you! I saw you run into that bathroom, so I waited. Thought I heard you kind of talking to yourself, but… you know—who doesn’t? Hey, you made it up here in great time. God, you haven’t changed a bit!” he says, lunging toward me for a one-armed hug—the ever-present laptop held in the other. The fact that Leo looks like a fresh-faced ex–fraternity boy instead of someone who’d ask you for change on a street corner is mind-blowing. He still has the posture of someone who’s uncomfortable with his height. Taller than Huston, Leo constantly looks like he’s dipping down to fit into a shortened doorway, seemingly guilt-ridden for looking down on everyone both physically and intellectually. I’ve been looking up to both of my brothers since puberty.
Leo’s traded his light brown mud-soaked dreadlocks for a pleasingly shaggy muss. His eyes… they’re the same. Mom’s. I look away and take in his outfit. It’s amazingly put-together. No tie-dye, dancing bears or hemp accessories to be found. A charcoal-gray sweater falls over his jeans and rather than having blackened bare feet he’s wearing a pair of actual shoes—sure, they’re Vans, but at least they’re shoes. At thirty-three, Leo still looks like he could easily be in his early twenties.
“You look… Jesus… you look,” I stutter, pulling back from him.
Leo laughs. “Like a grown-up?”
“A clean grown-up,” I correct.
“It’s a trip, huh? Thought I’d get a fresh start for the new job.” Leo giggles.
“You ain’t just whistling ‘Dixie,’ ” I say for the first time in my entire life.
“And apparently you’re now an old Southern lady. It’s hot here, huh? I mean, it’s late December and it’s not even sweater weather. I didn’t have any New Year’s plans… did you? I said it wasn’t sweater weather and I’m wearing a sweater! Hilarious,” Leo quickly says.
“No, I didn’
t have any New Year’s plans,” I answer one part of Leo’s impassioned Q&A.
“Ha, sweater weather,” Leo says.
“Oh… brought you this,” I say, pulling a can of Coke I got at a gas station on the 101 out of my purse.
“Aww, thanks,” Leo says, taking the soda, lunging in for another hug. God, I’ve missed him.
“I promised,” I say, mid-hug.
“We’re down here,” Leo says, pulling out of the hug and taking my hand. He guides me down a hallway toward… I’m not ready. I’m… no, Huston’s speech about me locking it up and being part of this family speeds back. I squeeze Leo’s hand and give him a quick smile.
We make a left and come to a far more official-looking nurse’s station and a pair of double doors. Leo sets his laptop and the can of Coke down and begins signing in.
“We have to sign in for the ICU,” Leo says over his shoulder as he hunches over the clipboard on the counter. The nurse hands him a name tag with HAWKES scrawled across it. Leo hands me the pen and I fill out the necessary information:
12/29
Grace Baker Hawkes
Daughter
Yes, I’m over the age of twelve
Ray Hawkes
The nurse hands me my own name tag, once again with HAWKES scrawled on it. I peel off the tag and press the paper against my sweater. I hitch my purse tighter on my shoulder.
We enter through the double doors to the right.
The buzzing of the door ushers in a symphony of beeps, blips and urgent voices. This little community hospital has quite an impressive ICU. At its center is yet another nurse’s station. Around the station are four rooms, all with glass doors and windows. A sort of warped theater of sickness.
