by Lewis Shiner
*
I woke up screaming. I scared Elena, who had drifted off also, and when she jumped she hit the burn on my chest, which made me gasp with pain.
By the time we had sorted ourselves out, the overhead lights came on and a female nurse came in, demanding to know what Elena was doing in bed with me. She was my age, short and squared off. Was Elena crazy, did she not know what I had been through?
«Better than you,» she said. «I knew he needed to be touched.»
I had dreamed I was in the black and white tiled kitchen. Time was running in reverse. The head of the man in coveralls reassembled itself as I watched, and I realized that the rescue had never happened, that it was only one more false hope.
The mood of the dream still clung to me and I found it hard to get emotionally involved as Elena argued with the nurse, who told her that visiting hours were over and she had to leave. Elena insisted she was my partner, my compañera, and that I needed her here around the clock.
«Please,» I said to the nurse. «Please let her stay.»
Finally she relented. «But stay out of his bed,» she said. «If I find you in there again, I’ll call Security.»
She turned to me and said in English, “You can have the pain medication again now if you need it.”
“Yes, please,” I said.
Elena moved a brown vinyl-covered recliner next to the bed, her head by my feet. From there her left hand could reach the bed and rest on my thigh.
The nurse came with the morphine and injected it into a port on the IV. She looked at Elena, who was already falling asleep again, and said, “She is strong for you, this one, no?”
The morphine burned through my vein and the pain immediately faded. “Strong for me,” I said. “Yes.”
I was afraid to go back to sleep, afraid of the dream. In the end, the drug was stronger. I nodded in and out as the sun came up on Sunday morning.
*
For breakfast they brought scrambled eggs. The smell of them reminded me of the Egg McMuffin, nauseating me, bringing back the closet and the green wool blanket and the bucket, and I shifted in the bed, feeling the edges of panic, fighting not to throw up. Elena took it away and found me fresh fruit, strawberries and apples and oranges. The oranges could have triggered something, but they didn’t, other than to remind me of Marco Suarez again, whom no one had come to save.
Bahadur arrived at eleven. He brought a bouquet of yellow flowers and Elena propped them in a plastic cup of water. We shook hands carefully and Bahadur said, «You could start a new weight loss program. The Torture Diet. You could make millions.»
I tried to smile. During the night the nurse had helped me to get to the bathroom. There I had seen myself in the mirror for the first time. The right eyelid was at half-mast and the left eye was still puffy from the burn and the beatings. I had a week’s growth of beard and my hair was filthy and matted. I must have lost 20 pounds, though I had been thin already. It showed in my cheekbones and the hollows of my eye sockets, in my arms and protruding ribs. Virtually every square inch of skin was mottled with yellowish-red bruises.
«Okay,» Bahadur said, «I will spare you my comedy stylings. I mostly want to tell you that I talked to La Reina last night and this morning and she promises me that she is going to take care of everything. She will put in for medical leave for you, retroactive to last Tuesday, and when that runs out, she says you will have long-term disability for as long as you need it. So you don’t need to think about that at all.»
«Okay,» I said.
«She has also talked to someone she knows in the police. They told her there is not going to be any investigation of the three dead bodies found in an abandoned office building yesterday. It has being ruled a drug killing.»
«No investigation? But Cesarino ordered it. He was there.»
«Then you haven’t heard?»
«What?»
«Someone got into the apartment where Cesarino was under house arrest. It happened late last night. According to the news report he was shot five times.» Bahadur relished the story, as if he were rehashing the plot of one of his crime movies. «Once in each kneecap, then, some considerable time later, once in the stomach. Then, later still, twice in the head.»
I looked at Elena. She nodded enough to tell me that she knew, as I did, that Osvaldo had done it.
Bahadur said, «No one understands how the killer got in and fired the shots and got out again without anyone knowing. It’s all a mystery.»
«He probably got in the same way Cesarino got out to come see me,» I said. I felt churned up inside, elated and triumphant and helpless and sad.
«Anyway,» Bahadur said, «it means you are free to go back to the US.» He wouldn’t meet my eyes as he said it.
«What do you mean, the US?» I said. «What are you talking about?»
«La Reina called your wife as soon as we heard you were safe.» He was acutely uncomfortable. «Everything has been arranged. She is coming to get you.»
«My wife…?»
«Correction,» said Lauren’s voice from the doorway. «His wife is here.»
*
She could not have been long off the flight from Dulles. Her black linen suit showed every wrinkle from the overnight trip. “You must be Bahadur,” she said, walking briskly in to shake his hand. She switched to Spanish as she crossed the room. «And you must be Elena. You are even more beautiful than I imagined.» Her accent was not particularly good, but she had a photographic memory for vocabulary.
Elena’s face registered the same shock and hurt that I felt. She, at least, was not in on it. She took Lauren’s hand by reflex and said, «Thank you.»
Finally Lauren came to me. In nineteen years I had seen her cry exactly three times. As she gently brushed the hair from my forehead, I was shocked to see her eyes mist over. “Oh, baby,” she said, “what did they do to you?”
“Lauren…”
“Hush, baby, don’t say anything.” She turned to Bahadur and said, “I need to examine him, if you don’t mind.”
“Well,” Bahadur said. “I should be going anyway.” His face was still flushed, his posture stiff. “Rob, I’ll talk to you once you’re settled. I know you’ll get the best possible care now.”
“Duke Hospital,” Lauren said. “One of the top five medical facilities in the entire world.”
“And for the sake of your own safety,” Bahadur said. “At least until this dies down.”
I nodded at Bahadur, feeling betrayed and knowing I had no right to complain, betrayer that I was. He made an awkward attempt at a smile and left.
In Spanish I said, «Lauren. I appreciate what you went through to get here, but I don’t want to go back to the US. My home is here now, with Elena.»
Lauren started to lift the sheet, and looked at Elena. Elena said, «Go ahead. I have already seen it.»
She pulled the sheet down and the gown up and gently pressed one finger against the skin at the top of my left foot.
I winced and said, «Lauren, are you listening to me?»
She switched back to English. “Rob, with all due love and respect, I don’t think you’re in any condition to make that kind of decision at the moment. You’ve just been through a living hell, you’re severely damaged, and you’re full of opiates besides. You need world class medical attention and I’m going to see that you get it.”
She had moved up my legs and was cupping one of my testicles. “I’ve got a flight set up for tonight. We’ll be in first class. I’ll keep you sedated and there’ll be an ambulance waiting at RDU to take you straight to Duke.”
I began to hyperventilate.
Lauren saw it and punched the intercom. «I need that Ativan in here right now, please.»
I had seen it before. Lauren had only to walk into a hospital and people lined up to take orders from her. A nurse was there within a minute carrying a tiny pill in a plastic cup.
“Put this under your tongue,” Lauren said. I was writhing in the bed as the panic took con
trol of me. There were too many people in the room, I couldn’t breathe, I needed to be moving, but I couldn’t walk, there was no escape, and in a minute I would be throwing up and screaming. I put the pill under my tongue and swallowed the saliva that was flooding my mouth.
“Breathe,” Lauren said. She gave me her hand to squeeze and I was too desperate to refuse. The Ativan worked quickly. In five minutes my heart rate dropped and the pressure around my forehead let up, the pressure that had been squeezing it like a leather strap.
My vision, which had narrowed to a few feet directly in front of me, opened up again. Lauren was on the right side of my bed, still holding my right hand, and Elena was hanging on to my left arm with both hands.
Lauren smiled at me. “Better now?” She gave me a cup of water to drink. The Ativan was making me sleepy and I fought to stay alert.
“We need to leave for the airport in half an hour,” Lauren said. “I’ve got things to take care of and I know you two will need a few minutes, so I’ll give you some privacy.” She nodded to the nurse and the two of them left together.
The panic was still inside me, muffled, like it had been wrapped in blankets. Elena leaned into me and buried her face in my neck.
«I love you, Beto,» she said. «Maybe this is best for now. They will fix you up in the United States and then you can come back to me.»
«Elena…» I couldn’t find the words for what I was feeling. That I’d been tricked again, that the head of the man in the coveralls was coming back together, that the rescue had been a bitter dream, that everything was lost after all. «Don’t let her take me. Please don’t let her take me.»
«I don’t want to cry. I don’t want you to go back to the United States and only remember me crying.» It was too late. I felt the hot tears on my neck. «Beto, you are so strong. Look what you lived through.» She lifted her head to look me in the eyes. «You can live through a short vacation in the United States.» She laughed at that and I wanted to smile for her sake, but I couldn’t.
«I love you, Beto. I will always love you. I will be here waiting for you. You will call me on Skype and write me long passionate letters and then you will come back to me and we will dance at El Beso and La Ideal and make love all night.»
I knew she meant the words as she said them. To me they were a fantasy, impossible to believe. I closed my eyes so she wouldn’t see the despair in them. This is it, then, I thought. Let Lauren take me, so I won’t be a constant reminder to Elena of what we once had.
She kissed me one last time, with infinite gentleness, and said, «So long, Betito. I will see you soon.»
I heard her footsteps tick away across the floor and then, in the corridor, she began to run.
*
Lauren kept me so full of drugs that I registered only brief moments of the next few days. As they wheeled me out of the hospital I felt the last threads of attachment break. I was leaving the last place on Earth I’d seen Elena. I was seeing Buenos Aires for the last time. Something inside me let go. This is best for now, Elena had said. Best for now.
They took me through the airport in a wheelchair, sitting on an inflated ring, and put me straight onto the plane. I felt a jab of pain in my penis as they moved me into the airplane seat and discovered that Lauren had had me catheterized while I was unconscious.
I’d never flown first class before and I remembered almost nothing of it. I woke up at one point to see Lauren drinking a glass of champagne. She patted me on the arm and said, “How you doing, Rob?” and I went to sleep again.
We arrived at the Raleigh-Durham airport in a cold November rain. I had forgotten it was winter in the US. I had a glimpse of I-40, lit by the blue strobing lights of the ambulance, and the next thing I knew I was fighting claustrophobia in an elevator at Duke Hospital and Lauren was putting another Ativan under my tongue.
Best for now, I said to myself.
When I was conscious again, Sam was there.
“Sammy,” I said.
“Yo, D, did you get the number of the Hummer that hit you?” Like Lauren, Sam was not a physically affectionate person. He came over to the bed and squeezed my shoulder. “I was just in the vicinity, thought I’d see if you wanted to toss the old pigskin around.” Even Sam, the eternal, unflappable comedian, was having trouble hiding his shock and pain at the sight of me.
“Absolutely,” I said. “Just let me catch another couple of winks and we’ll do it.”
The next day they did a series of CT scans and MRIs and X-Rays, taking me around in a wheelchair with the legs elevated. They had to put me under for the MRI, after the sight of the narrow drawer they intended to put me in triggered another round of claustrophobia and panic.
In between I slept a little and ate a little. They gave me non-steroid anti-inflammatory drugs for my feet and testes, Dilaudid through the IV for pain, and Ativan for panic. Lauren spent an hour with me that morning before she went to work and a couple of hours that night. Sam visited in the late morning and then caught a flight to Boston.
On the second day a parade of specialists came in to tell me there was no permanent damage to the brain, nerves, or renal system. On the third, I woke up with my head reasonably clear. As soon as Lauren arrived, I asked if I could use her laptop.
“What for?”
“I want to check my email.” I told myself I just wanted to catch up, but in fact some stubborn part of me refused to give up one last thread of hope.
Lauren saw right through me. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
I let it go.
Later that morning the internist in charge of my case came to see me. I was sitting up in bed, paging through a magazine that I was unable to read because of my headache.
She was in her mid-thirties, fit, with short black hair and creamy brown skin. She gave me a quick exam and then pulled over a chair and sat in it backwards.
“Things could be a lot worse,” she said. “The hospital in Argentina did a good job of debriding those burns. There’ll be some scarring, but plastic surgery could fix that.” I made a dismissive gesture and she said, “I would consider it. It might do you good not to have a reminder of what happened staring you in the face, as it were.”
“Speaking of my face,” I said, “what about my eyelid?”
“The ptosis? Sorry, ten-dollar word for droopy eyelid. We don’t know what caused that. It indicates some kind of neurological event. You might have had a mini-stroke. All things considered, that wouldn’t be surprising.
“The rest of the facial story is that you lost a canine. Once you get out of here, any competent dentist can fit you with an implant or a permanent bridge.
“Moving down, you’ve got two cracked ribs, not terribly serious. There’s nothing to be done about them—they’re already held in place by plenty of muscle and they’ll heal on their own, though I know they hurt.
“As to your finger, the root of the nail is still there. People don’t realize how deep those things actually go. They think they’ve lost the entire nail, but it’s just the nail plate that typically comes off with severe trauma. It’ll take about six months for the nail to grow back. I’m not saying it’s going to be pretty, but you’ll have a nail.
“Your testes will gradually return to normal size. You may have some loss in terms of sperm generation. I don’t know if that’s an issue for you at this point in life. There shouldn’t be any impairment to your sexual function. So that’s good news, I hope. Once you feel up to it, you can get a sperm count and see what the story is there.”
I nodded. Reflexively I thought of Elena’s desire to have kids, and pushed the thought away.
“It’s pretty much the same story with your feet,” she said. “I think, in time, they should heal up okay. I don’t want to say you’re lucky—that would be pretty insensitive in the circumstances. It does work to your advantage that the techniques they used on you were largely intended to not do permanent damage.
“I want to get you up and moving on a walker, t
hough the consulting podiatrist is a little doubtful. The longer you’re in bed the more debilitated you’ll be, and I’m concerned with your overall condition. They’ve got some boots with patellar tendon bracing, basically a shoe with a bar on each side that connects to the leg just under the knee. They’ll let you walk without putting weight on the bottoms of your feet.”
“Will I be able to dance again?”
“That’s not a trick question, right? Like the old joke about playing the violin?”
I tried to smile, because she was working so hard for it.
“It depends on what kind of dancing,” she said. “If you’re talking about flamenco, probably not a good idea.”
My throat was dry. “Tango,” I said.
“That’s mostly sliding the feet around, right? Not a lot of hopping or jumping? In time, a few months, I should think you’ll be fine. No promises, you understand.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”
She looked at me for a minute and then she said, “I’m going to take a guess at what you’re feeling. Stop me if I’m wrong or out of line, okay?”
I nodded.
“This is all good news, but in a way it feels like kind of a letdown, am I right? After what you went through, that the physical damage could be so…superficial?”
I nodded again.
“The physical damage is serious, but yes, the human body can be amazingly resilient. Especially with people like you, dancers, athletes, people who stay in good shape. The mind is something else again.
“I have to tell you that you are a prime candidate for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It’s pretty much a certainty that you’re going to have at least some symptoms of it, possibly severe. You should be aware of that.”
“What kind of symptoms?”
“Hypervigilance. Anxiety. You will probably have trouble sleeping, and some nightmares. Maybe even flashbacks, where you relive parts of the experience. You’ll probably have a lot of anger that will be difficult to control. The thing is, it will sneak up on you and you won’t know where it’s coming from. It may help you to say, ‘I’m feeling this way because I was tortured.’ And I strongly recommend you see a therapist of some kind—psychiatrist, MSW, whatever. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to trust somebody with some of the hurt you’re carrying. That’s when you’re going to be able to start getting well.”
