by Kyanna Skye
There was one last thing to do. He was never really going to be gone. She'd see his glazed-over eyes staring at her from the couch when she walked home from work, and smell the liquor pouring out of his mouth. The sweat-and-filth-stained air would always be stuck inside her nose, and every time she saw a cigarette sitting in a puddle, she'd think of the perpetually swollen mixtures of alcohol, bile, and cigarettes sitting in cups and bottles strewn all around the house.
If she wanted to get rid of him, she'd have to destroy everything he was—his essence—and find some closure so that she could tell herself that he was really gone.
Lana took a shovel from the decomposing shed attached to the side of the trailer and brushed the cobwebs and dust clumps off it. Then she walked into the living room and used it to throw out his old comforter, a filthy piece of tattered rags covered in every body fluid and disease known to man. It hit the dirt outside with a soft flutter. Then she went on to the beer bottles, his clothes, and all of his old records. She lined the entire trailer with everything he owned. Then she doused his things with gas and threw a lit match onto it.
As Lana drove away, unperturbed by the fact that she had just given everything up, she told herself over and over again that she was free, but even her closure ritual couldn't give her the relief she needed. Somehow, he'd find a way to creep back in. A part of her died in that trailer, and she was never going to leave.
Lana had never traveled farther west than the Sonoran Desert, a relatively green patch of dirt with dry river beds and creosote bushes sitting beneath gray mountains. She thought it was terrible. It got well over a hundred in the summer, and it never snowed. But the farther west she traveled, the worse it got. The first six hours, the heat increased until it was unbearable. She had to keep a cup of water next to her at all times. If she didn't take a drink every few minutes, her throat would go dry; longer than that and she'd start to feel faint.
Then, after about ten hours, the desert turned into nothing but mounds of yellow sand dunes, stretching for miles and miles. The heat from the sun reflected off them, turning her car into an oven that slowly started to bake her skin.
She was never leaving the desert. Even the hills past the California border were covered in boulders with tiny clumps of yellow grass sticking out from in between them, and just a few hours away from one of the largest bodies of water, she was still stuck baking in the heat. That's how it always seemed.
When she finally got her nursing license, they were surviving on ramen and fast food wages. She was so excited. She thought that she could finally have a good place, nice things, and a decent car, but her money kept disappearing. Life threw her back down onto the pavement and she was stuck at rock bottom, wading in dirty clothes and empty forty-ounce bottles.
San Diego was going to be just as much of a disappointment. All she wanted was a chance to walk a few blocks from her house so she could look out at the water. She'd only seen the ocean once when she was a little girl. Her mother saved up a few hundred dollars from waiting tables and took her on a day trip. Lana remembered how she had to drive the whole way there and back without sleeping just so she could get back to work on time.
Lana didn't want to live that way. She wanted to be comfortable, not tied to a terrible job with no savings, and no hope for the future.
There was a series of hills, sharp twists and turns through rocky terrain that led farther upward until she reached the top and she could see San Diego laying out before her. She could smell the water. It was like foam and seaweed drying out in the sun. When she saw the water, she thought she was staring at the end of the world. She'd never seen anything so big in her entire life.
She was dusty, sweaty, and unshowered with scraggly, sandy-brown hair flaring out on all ends. There was no way she would ever be a part of that world. She was a desert rat and had no place in the water.
Lana stopped at a Motel 7 sitting just outside town with a chain-link fence and a line of semis surrounding it. She parked her car where she could see it in front of the office and checked back when she opened the door. This was the kind of place where tweakers and crackheads roamed, breaking into cars and running off with everything they could find. She didn't want to let her car out of her sight. The desk clerk was a young, blond man with dreads and a pipe sitting next to him. He nodded his head in acknowledgment when she walked in.
“You looking for a room?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“60 a night. I need a credit card.”
She pulled out her prepaid card and slapped it on the desk. He stuck it under a piece of receipt tape and rolled a pen over it then handed it back to her with the keys.
“Just keep it cool.” He picked up his pipe and smoked himself further into oblivion when she walked out. She couldn't help but think of Jim wasting away on the couch with a pipe in his hand. It was sick.
Lana walked back out to her car, and leaned against the door, staring out at the long row of rooms. Hers was at the end, which meant that she would have to walk all that way. She didn't think she could do it. Her legs were ready to give out, and her hands were raw from being baked in the sun.
Lana got back in the car, backed up into the space near her room, and got out with her keys in hand. Just as she was about to open the door, she realized that she couldn't just leave her things in her car; they'd get stolen as soon as she walked inside.
“Ugh!” Her head collapsed onto the door, and she took a moment to catch her breath. Then she walked back and opened the back so she could pull out all the trash bags holding her things. Once she was certain that she had taken everything out, including the burger wrappers, she threw herself onto the bed and nearly died of exhaustion.
She checked the clock when she woke up. It was 5:30 in the morning, the worst possible time, but she needed to find work or she wasn't going to survive. Lana was going to get a job that day.
She scrubbed the desert dust off her body until her skin was raw. Then she pulled out the phone book and called every nursing agency and hospital in the city. Many of them needed help, but quite a few had lengthy interview processes that she couldn't afford. She'd only have enough money to survive for three weeks at the motel; that meant she had no time for error.
Three places told her to come in. One was a nursing home. She refused. Then there was a hospice. She regretted even calling them. Then there was a small clinic near the beach on the southeast side called Miller House. They said they were constantly busy and they needed somebody the next day. She knew they would hire her, so she tied her hair back and put on the best clothes she had that weren't stained.
Miller House was a standalone, stucco building sitting in the middle of a field near the sea cliffs. The office was dingy. The receptionist was busy fielding off the rest of the staff and the frantic patients in back—just what Lana expected. They had the hiring paperwork ready when she walked in and completed the process without asking too many questions. They were obviously desperate for somebody. The doctor that oversaw the whole thing was pale and sweaty; he had been running around helping people all day.
Lana tried to be optimistic. The pay was three times what she made at Sunset Boulevards, and the work would keep her busy, but nothing seemed real. She was still stuck at home. She didn't know what she was doing there in San Diego or what was going to happen. She was confident that she could survive, but she didn't feel like there was a future so long as she was mentally stuck in the trailer.
After some negotiation with payroll and a quick sit down with a doctor, the clinic agreed to give her the first check in a week with a small advance if she came in every day on time until then. That meant that she would have enough to get a cheap place.
California had a different currency system altogether. Her trailer was four hundred a month but a one-bedroom apartment in San Diego was $1,500not including utilities. If she was making the rate the clinic was giving her but was back in Arizona, she could've had a nice house and a new car. In California, their pay was
barely enough to get by.
The receptionist looked like she was going to collapse when Lana walked in. “They need you in the back right away.” She pointed at a box of gloves and hand sanitizer next to the automatic sliding door.
“What is it?”
“Gunshot.”
“Shouldn't they be in the ER?”
“It's always packed.” She opened the doors with a button under the desk and Lana ran into the main room, which was filled with dozens of patient beds surrounded by sliding curtains.
“Move. I need this blood stopped right away,” a doctor in the back of the room called. He was treating a beast of a man on a gurney. Lana pressed down hard on his shoulder and locked eyes with him while they took out the bullet.
His screams drowned out everything. Then the clink of the lead bullet hitting the bottom of a metal basin brought Lana back to reality.
“Tramadol,” the doctor barked and motioned towards a closet on the other side of the room. Lana pulled out a vial and syringe and filled it up. It occurred to her as she shot the man up that she wasn't supposed to be doing any of this. She was just an LPN; her job didn't include bullet wound treatment. She knew how to handle everything the doctor was doing, from stitching up the patient to monitoring his blood flow, but she wasn't supposed to be doing it. Even stopping the blood and administering painkillers was beyond her capacity. She needed certifications, fingerprint clearances, stuff she simply didn't have. This wasn't legal.
When the painkiller kicked in, the man fell limp and passed out, unconscious.
“Am I going to be doing this all the time?”
“This is your job.” The doctor took off his gloves and started sanitizing his hands.
“I'm not certified for any of this.”
“Does it look like I care?”
It didn't.
“This is what we do,” he said. “If you can handle it, it's easy. Don't ask questions. We're here to save people's lives, not get into the patient's business. Do you understand me?” He was telling her to keep her mouth shut and not to go to the authorities. That might be a problem.
“Yes,” she answered. She wanted the job. It'd be some action for a change. She never did anything at Sunset Boulevards.
“Can you take out a bullet?” the doctor asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. Come to me if there's a life-threatening situation. I'm Dr. Matthews.” He walked away, leaving Lana breathless and aching for answers, but she wasn't going to get any. She was too busy. The doctor whisked a patient to the back room, presumably for surgery, while she ran around attending to the other patients.
All the patients were men. There were a lot of Natives and Mexicans with tattoos covering their bodies. Many had three, pale-blue dots meaning, 'Mi vida loca,' my crazy life in Spanish. They put them under their eyes and the place between their thumb and forefinger. There was lots of old English and cursive, some back murals, mostly of the Virgin Mary. These tattoos all had two things in common: they were gang affiliated and they were all made up of the characteristic blue-black ink Lana had seen on prison tattoos.
They were treating thugs, and not just little boys running around in baggy clothes. These were career criminals who'd been to prison. They'd been shot at before. Many of them had old knife and bullet wound scars, and most had the telltale facial features of drug use.
Lana wore a cold mask most of the day. She kept it positioned so nobody could see her features. She didn't know what was going on at the clinic, and she didn't know whether or not it was safe, so she tried to keep anyone from seeing her face. It didn't seem to make much difference. The patients were brought in screaming and babbling; they weren't looking at her face.
She learned how to handle most wounds, aside from the ones that involved major organs. At first, it was daunting, but there was a simple process to it. About halfway through her shift, she had a rhythm. By that time, things quieted down and she had a chance to take a seat. Dr. Matthews walked in while she was sitting in the break room.
“Can you do this?” He sharpened his eyes towards her.
“Yes.”
“Can you agree to never say a word about anything you see here?”
“Why?” She stood up to meet him. “I have to know what I'm getting into. Is this safe? Well-guarded? What are you doing?”
“When you're here,” he stepped towards the door, “you will not ask questions about anything. Your safety is never guaranteed, but I've been here fifteen years, and I've never been shot. That's all you get.”
“It's just....”
“Either you can or you can't handle this job, and I need to know now—no bullshit. Now can you accept this position?”
“Of course I can. We're saving lives, but this is dangerous.”
“It's not dangerous.”
She was being told that she was relatively safe and that she shouldn't ask questions. She had already treated dozens of gunshot wounds with no explanation, and that was the only information she was going to get. It was enough to keep her there, but not enough to satisfy her.
She had a lot of questions. The only patients there were thugs. The receptionist told everyone who called that they were booked. If there were men physically guarding the building, they weren't at the clinic. It was in the middle of a parking lot, and she saw most every room in the place, but the clinic was well watched. They had a camera setup that covered every inch. There were no blind spots. The cameras saw everything, and there were motion sensors outside the entrances.
Things could still happen. Men could come in with guns and kill people before security got there. She was starting to feel vulnerable.
Lana left the break room and saw a man get wheeled in with a bullet wound on his upper arm. Unlike most of the patients, he wasn't screaming, or even strained. Instead, he was holding his arm like he'd gotten a cut and needed a Band-Aid. His rough, scraggly face was angled by a long nose. He reminded her of depictions of ancient Vikings.
The floor was mostly filled with sleeping patients, so she had to help him. The doctor handed his file to her while he was treating another patient. “He's quick. I need the bed. Hurry, and don't stare.”
Why would Lana stare?
“Hurry up.” The patient's face came out from behind the curtain.
“Fine.” Lana walked in without looking at him and turned to pull some gauze out of the cupboard. When she closed the door, he was staring at her.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She turned back to him and moved her eyes down his arm, to where the wound was. He might not have even needed a doctor. “Do you know what you're doing?” He held out his arm so she could work on it.
“I've treated 36 patients today.”
“No. Not that,” he said. When he tilted his head up to look at her, his Nordic features made her shiver.
“What then?”
“You know what I'm talking about. Are you okay to work here? You're new, and we have to screen all the girls.” The way he looked up at her with playful eyes told her this man had authority.
“I've got it covered.” Lana stitched him up.
“Most people can't do this. I'm impressed that a girl like you can stomach it.”
“Girl like me?” She stepped back and put her hand on her hip.
“A girl that's petite and quiet. You look more like a librarian.”
“Fuck you.”
He chuckled, and let his puppy-dog eyes rest on her tits. She scoffed and grabbed a jacket from the wall so she could cover herself up. It wasn't a violation so much as the fact that she couldn't help but feel naked when she was around him.
“Aw, come on,” he said when she walked back into his patient area. “You look better the other way.”
“Do you want painkillers?” She swabbed him with rubbing alcohol.
“No.”
She was trying to threaten him. She didn't think he'd walk out without at least numbing the wound a little. That was insane and possibly dangerous.
“You're really gonna leave without a shot?”
“Yeah.” He braced his thick arms against the exam table when he jumped off. “Let me repay you for this.”
“No.”
“You can't do this without letting me thank you.” It was adorable watching him sway back and forth on his feet.
“No.” She shook her head. There was no way she was going anywhere with him.
“You're new to San Diego, so you've probably never been to a fresh catch seafood place. They catch it straight out of the ocean and put it on your plate. There is nothing like it.”
“Are you trying to bribe me with food?” Lana questioned.
“I'm just trying to figure out where we're going tonight.” He was rough but articulate, and his blond hair shifted around when he talked.
“Why do you want me to go with you so badly?” Lana challenged him.
“Because you're tough.”
She tapped her foot and stared down at the tile. “I'm not having sex with you. We are not going on a date, but I do want some of that seafood.”
“Cool.” He pulled out his phone. “What's your number, Lana?”
“Wait.” She stepped back into the curtain. “How do you know my name?”
“Like I told you we keep tabs on the girls here.”
“You did an investigation on me?”
“What?” He sounded surprised. “No. My father and his friend own this place. We do background checks and keep a file on all the employees. I checked yours out yesterday. I check out all the nurses.”
“I'll bet you do.”
He leaned against the examination table, just a few feet from where she was standing in front of the divider curtain. “Are you coming with me tonight?”
“I don't even know your name.”
“Look it up in my file.” He pointed to the bright-yellow folder that was hanging above his bed.
