The Last Time I Died

by Joe Nelms

  Why is that exciting?

  She pulls a restraint up and starts strapping me in. Right wrist first. This, I didn’t expect.

  —Ahh . . .

  My hesitation is clear, but she doesn’t pause in the slightest. If anything, she speeds up.

  —You may have some spasms.

  —How exactly does this work?

  She yanks the restraint tight. I may never get out.

  —It’s basically an overdose. But with a time-released, counteracting antidote. A toxic screener slash blood cleaner.

  Ah. The old toxic screener slash blood cleaner trick.

  —So, no surgery?

  I eyeball the scalpels. Maybe I care a little bit.

  —Not for what you want. I take you down. I bring you up. It’s all needles.

  She straps in my left wrist. I’m helpless.

  —And we may have to use the paddles and some adrenaline.

  —An overdose on what?

  She straps in my right ankle. She pulls it tighter than it should be but I say nothing. How many times have I hurt myself and blown it off with the phrase ‘I’ll live’? I’m tempted to use that here but I know it might not be true.

  —Synthetic heroine.

  —Is that the ‘other stuff’ that you got in trouble for?

  She straps in my left ankle.

  —No.

  She fastens a strap snugly across my waist and pats my chest.

  —So, ready to die?

  I nod. Yes. I’m ready to die.

  I am ready to die.

  Cordoba looks over her arrangement of needles. A spark of intensity in her eyes. This is the good part. She practically drools.

  She picks a syringe up and taps the air out of it.

  —We’ll start fairly slow and then escalate.

  She inserts the needle into one of my IV feeders. Gently guides the plunger in.

  I’ve never done heroin. Not once. I was always more of a cocaine guy. Lisa told me she tried heroin once in college. Thought it was coke and snorted a rail. She liked, but didn’t love. It was probably shitty heroin.

  —How do you feel?

  —Fine.

  She waits.

  Holy shit.

  My eyes suddenly droop.

  —I . . . whoa.

  —How about now?

  My lips move, but I can’t speak. I can see the doctor and I love her more than anything in the world. Maybe I am a heroin guy.

  —Christian. Focus.

  I can see what barely registers as excitement in the good doctor’s eyes as she taps the air out of a second syringe and inserts it in the other IV feeder.

  Yes. More please.

  She waits a beat and then slides the plunger down.

  —Christian?

  My eyes are still open, but I can’t respond.

  The heart monitor’s beeping slows.

  She’s so fucking excited she can barely take her eyes off of my face to check it.

  She grabs a third needle, taps the air out, and inserts it.

  This time she watches my face as she plunges the third syringe.

  The monitors slow even further. Warning alarms blare from at least two of the machines.

  She slides her hand down her skirt.

  Oh.

  She’s masturbating.

  I know something’s off here but I’m losing touch so fast I can’t form a clear thought beyond that one.

  I’m fading into somewhere.

  Unconsciousness.

  Heaven.

  Myself.

  With her free hand she inserts a fourth syringe and jams the plunger in quickly. Much faster than the other three.

  My eyes loll around my head independently of each other. As my right eye swirls I see her check the monitors. I can hear them quickly slow to almost nothing.

  Perfect.

  She leans in and tongue kisses me.

  I flatline.

  Black.

  54

  White.

  Silence.

  I’m naked and formless and completely aware that I’m in The White.

  I am content.

  Waiting.

  If nothing happened, I’d be okay with that too. I have no worries here. No mortgage, no job, I don’t even have to shower. No pain, no happiness, no hope, no despair. I’m even. So even I never want to leave.

  And then I hear the whoosh. Maybe I do want something to happen. I know the memories are coming and I have to force myself out of the comfort zone The White floods me with. Get ready. You only have so long. Concentrate. It’s worth it.

  Memories fly by. Zillions of them in an angry flurry. To my side. Below me. Above. How the fuck am I supposed to find anything in this place?

  I strain to slow them down. Work to focus on what I’m seeing.

  There goes an awkward office party. That asshat Brennan mouthing off about his bonus when he’s the laziest bastard we ever hired. Me typing a brief on that awful old computer. Buying lunch across the street from my office.

  There I am haggling with a car salesman before walking out.

  There I am brushing my teeth.

  Doing laundry.

  Washing the dishes.

  Waiting for the subway.

  Calling a client.

  Taking notes.

  Painting a wall.

  Yelling for Warren Haynes to play Soulshine.

  Finding a parking ticket.

  Unlocking a door.

  Rolling up a sleeping bag.

  Walking through a mall.

  Running. Fixing a faucet. Tipping a sommelier.

  This is crazy.

  Organizing my e-mails.

  Pledging that dumb frat.

  Punching a doorman.

  Downloading Carolla.

  Ordering lamb chops.

  Downloading music.

  Working out with a trainer.

  Checking my voicemail.

  Plumbing my drain. Shaving. Shifting into third.

  This is a waste.

  No. It’s not.

  There. A memory from my ninth year.

  I will it closer. Am I flying toward it or is it flying toward me?

  The memory hits me square in the face and I’m there.

  Brooklyn.

  My home.

  I’m eight.

  My stupid little eight-year-old brain is on fire.

  Yelling. My father and mother are screaming at each other in the kitchen. I’m in the next room watching. From the feel of it, they’ve been fighting for weeks. The tension. My god. I’m feeling the persistent taut uneasiness that used to live with us every day. It’s right there with me. Saturating the room. I’m not shocked or surprised at what I’m seeing. I’m used to it. My father is furious. My mother is scared. I’ve never seen her like this. Or maybe I have. But only lately. Things have been getting worse. He’s so much louder than her.

  —I’ve had enough of your shit!

  —Stop trying to control me!

  My mother’s white knuckled fingers are locked onto her purse. I want them to stop, but I know they won’t. I want to run and hide but I don’t. I’m frozen with fear and what I now understand to be fascination. How can people treat each other like this? Is this the way things are supposed to be? This what adults do? Is this happening in our neighbors’ houses? Will I be this angry when I’m bigger? About what?

  I’m trembling.

  My father grabs the purse and fights to pull it out of her hands. He may be more intense than she is. I know this is the first time their fights have gotten this physical. I know my mother won’t talk to me tonight. I know I’ll put myself to bed. I know I will lie awake most of the night listening to her wail and cry. I know that soon my father will disappear for days. I know I’ll wonder if this is my fault.

  My father shouts.

  —I want that money!

  —No!

  My sister is behind me. I look at her face. She’s terrified. Quiet tears run down her cheeks. She wants me to ho
ld her and make it go away. I’m older and sometimes I tell her I’ll take care of her. I know it makes her feel better so I tell her this when we’re alone in my bedroom or hiding in the basement. She crying so hard she’s shaking but she won’t make a sound because we both know that will make things much worse. I don’t say anything to her or hold her. I can’t. If I do I’ll collapse. I stare at her and do nothing. I’m eight. She’s three.

  I turn back to my fighting parents.

  —I am done fucking around! Give it to me!

  My father smacks her hard across the face and yanks the purse out of her hands, knocking my mother down in the process. She’s bleeding from her mouth. Her eye is already swelling. She crawls after him, trying to grab it back. Struggling. Savage.

  —NOOOO!

  My father shoves her away, yanks out her wallet, and takes all the cash and credit cards. He drops the purse and heads for the back door.

  She collapses.

  —What about my medicine?!

  She curls up in the corner and howls. I turn to see that Ella has run to her room to do the same.

  I’m eight. She’s three.

  I try to suck all this in and more. Every emotion. Every physical detail. Every word spoken. The setting. The time. The wallet. My father’s voice. My mother’s tears. This room. What does it smell like? What’s on the counters? Where did he go? I want to know it all but the scene is fading fast. The colors are washing out faster than I can absorb them.

  I see the ghost of my father turn toward me and open his mouth to speak. But the sound in the memory was the first thing to go so I can’t hear what he’s saying and soon it doesn’t matter because the color is gone and I’m left with nothing.

  Black.

  55

  (And there he is.)

  The old boy, lying there unconscious as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Tucked into a hospital-grade patient bed, mere hours past his latest, carefully choreographed, near-death experience, he has slipped back into the sound, if medically assisted, slumber of a newborn baby. A propofol nap. Had we not already thoroughly acquainted ourselves with him, it might be tempting to refer to his as the sleep of the innocent. But, that would be an unnecessary injection of ironic hilarity in an otherwise serious situation.

  While by no means innocent, our man is decidedly unaware of the machinations of the good doctor who is performing mere inches from his practically lifeless body.

  She’s quite busy proving herself to be the talented and dedicated physician the old boy believed her to be, providing service far and above what one might find in a traditional hospital. She’s patient and caring and a careful note taker. She’s observant, anticipatory, and methodical. In short she is precisely what he needed. Not that our man deserves it. But, what luck indeed.

  Monitors are checked. Responses are measured. Meters are watched. Lady Cordoba remains patiently at his side until she has established our man is recovered enough for the second stage of her plan.

  Ah ha.

  It would appear that she is not only a skilled emergency doctor and a brazen, if ethically barren, medical researcher, but also a gifted surgeon willing to act unabashedly alone where others would insist on a team of medical experts as a matter of support. Unprofessional? Without a doubt. Adept and impressive? Indubitably.

  And on top of all of this, she is a brilliant businesswoman.

  Observe her haggling tooth and nail, even as she works, with the Asian gentleman who has recently joined us. He is without question a shark, and, while my Korean is a tad spotty, it’s clear to see the good doctor is not readily amenable to lowering her substantial fee. The Korean inveigles and cajoles and whines and threatens, but she remains the unemotional counterpart to his screaming attempts at chicanery, palaver, and intimidation, a masterful strategy on her part. Inevitably, the Korean overplays his gambit, and when both parties understand he is without leverage beyond financial resources, he buckles and agrees to her original asking price. After forcibly regaining his composure, the Korean leaves Cordoba to administer her patient care as if he had never been there.

  Hours later, the Korean returns with an elegant attaché. When he presents its contents, Cordoba deigns to look only as long as is necessary to confirm that he has proffered a small velvet bag of diamonds, as promised. Curt nods are exchanged, the case left on a counter, and the Korean is instructed to wait in the front room. Cordoba continues her bloody, bloody work.

  There is much to do.

  56

  I open my eyes to find Cordoba standing over me.

  She did it. I’m alive.

  She says something that I think is a question. Or a warning. Or an apology. I haven’t the slightest idea.

  She’s so beautiful and I love her for this gift she has given me. I want to hug her but my arms won’t move. I want to thank her, but my eyes are closing at the thought. She has opened my heart or my mind or wherever I have been storing all these memories and without her I would have never found them and it’s not too late to make up for lost time and we should talk about this. Just us without so many meddling friends. I want to tell her how much she means to me and that we should never be apart and it’s all a big mistake that we should have worked harder to avoid. Everything I realized I should have told her before it was too late. I feel like this is a miracle and we shouldn’t waste it. I want to promise to not take too much of her time. Maybe we could sit quietly and hold hands and look at each other because sometimes that’s enough. I want to say her name.

  I think there’s a tube in my throat.

  I try to speak but the effort is overwhelming.

  Black.

  57

  *It’s a year and three months ago.

  I’m sitting in my office pretending to work late but really just drinking.

  In the last week or so, I’ve begun to notice that if I’m alone for a long enough stretch of time, I have suicidal thoughts. Not suicidal intentions. These are different. Suicidal thoughts.

  Not Ooh, where’s that gun? I sure would like to kill myself right now. More like philosophical ruminations of how much easier it would be if I swallowed some Drano or fell asleep in my garage with the car running. Easier than trying to explain myself to Lisa or figuring out what the correct response to increasingly bad news about her father is. I know I should at least respond in some way. I look at her and I know I should do something.

  Do some thing.

  She’s leaning on me. Counting on my emotional help. Whether she realizes it or not, she’s begging me with her actions to work my arms free of the psychological ties that bind them to my body. Catch me, Christian.

  I realize it, but I let her fall right through me anyway. My support an ethereal tangle of confused emotions I should have dealt with long ago. I don’t know what’s in the dark cloud that has supplanted sympathy on my part. I should figure that out. Do some soul searching. Hold her.

  But I don’t. And even though I do nothing, even though my cruel, cruel behavior burns exactly zero calories, somehow I know that erasing myself from the planet would be easier.

  I don’t have a car or a garage and I know I would hate the taste of Drano. Also, I can’t see myself actually going through with it. I’m a narcissist and as much as I hate my very being, I hold myself, at the same time, far too important to commit suicide.

  But still, the logic is there. I could make things so easy for everyone concerned.

  I’m not sure these are what a licensed psychiatrist would officially classify as suicidal thoughts. I’m only guessing they are what the calming voice at the end of pharmaceutical commercials refers to while we all watch someone catch butterflies or throw a football through a hanging tire or drift comfortably off to sleep.

  If you’re having suicidal thoughts, discontinue use and consult your doctor.

  The thinking being that suicidal thoughts lead to suicidal intentions.

  58

  *It’s a year and two months ago.

  We’re driving back
from her dad’s funeral and she hasn’t cried yet.

  Not for weeks. She won’t talk to me about her father. I stood with her at the funeral but she wasn’t there. Didn’t say a word the entire service.

  We get home and Lisa walks away before we get to the front of our building. She just leaves. Walks up the block. I don’t call after her because I know she won’t answer.

  Her father left her a bunch of money, his watch collection, and a letter Lisa won’t read. She sat with him for the last three days before he died. I don’t think she slept for the last two. She was in the room when he died and I know that meant a lot to her. I was at work.

  She walks up the block and turns the corner without looking back.

  I go up into our apartment and sit on the couch. I don’t make myself a nice tall scotch and sit there and drink it. I don’t chug vodka straight from the bottle. I don’t pour a carafe of red wine down my throat. I sit on the couch and think nothing.

  My dry cleaning lies on the bed still in its plastic wrapping. I let it slide to the floor when I get in bed an hour later. I’m so tired I can’t think. Sleep comes easy and I wake up the next morning refreshed and alone.

  I don’t see Lisa for three days.

  59

  *It’s one year ago.

  There’s no note.

  No voicemail. No text. Nothing. She’s gone.

  I could feel it when I came home. I double-check to make sure. Her closet is empty. Her shoes are gone. The place doesn’t even smell like her anymore.

  One picture is missing from the mantle.

  Why would she take that one? It’s a picture of us. Not a honeymoon shot. Nothing special. Just a candid shot someone took of us dancing at a friend’s wedding. I always liked the picture and insisted it was the most romantic one we ever took. She hated the way she looked in it.