Anonymity

by Janna McMahan

Red streaks ran the length of her arm and a stab of pain coursed through her each time she moved.

  “Child, you need to go to the doctor,” one woman said.

  The woman bent down and slowly pushed back Lorelei's hood. She caught her breath when she saw the tattoos. She hesitated, and then laid her hand against Lorelei's cheek the way mothers check their babies for fever.

  “This child is burning up. She needs to see a doctor right now.”

  “We could take her to the clinic,” Elda said from somewhere behind them. “I think they're open on Saturday.”

  “Lorelei, can you walk?” Mook asked.

  “I think so.” He helped her to her feet, but Lorelei's head felt stuffed with cotton and her balance was off. She bent double and again collapsed to the ground. She began to cry and rock, cradling her arm against her chest.

  “I'll take her,” the man said. “My car is up by the bridge. Can you help get her to my car?”

  “I can carry her,” Mook said. “She can't weigh anything.”

  He worked his arms underneath her legs, stood and clutched her to him. She whimpered, then put her head on his shoulder.

  “Lead the way,” Mook said.

  “My stuff,” Lorelei mumbled. “My things.”

  “We'll keep it, Lorelei. I'll keep it all safe for you,” Elda said.

  “No,” Lorelei said. “No. I need it.”

  “We should go. Why can't she leave her things?” the man said.

  “You wouldn't understand,” Elda said as she rolled up the sleeping bag with all of Lorelei's pack inside. “Go on. I'll carry this.”

  Mook followed the man, picking his way through the underbrush. The women held branches out of the way. Mook struggled to climb an embankment and the women both grabbed one of his arms and helped. He recovered, and soon he eased Lorelei into the backseat of a sedan. The man got behind the wheel and one woman got into the front.

  Mook gave directions to the clinic. Elda shoved the sleeping bag bundle into the floorboard of the backseat.

  The kind woman got into the back and nestled Lorelei's head on her lap. “Poor child,” she said as she brushed stray hair from the girl's face.

  The woman's soft touch made Lorelei long for her mother. Lorelei's thoughts roamed and merged—children on the bus ride into Austin, their sweaty curls and slack lips. A centipede, black and menacing. Her mother, worried, always so worried. A boy she knew once, a dark boy with kind eyes that felt like love. She needed to sleep. If only she could sleep. It felt so good to lie down, to be comforted.

  “Why?” the woman asked her friends as they wove through Austin's flurry of traffic. “She's such a lovely girl. Why would she mark herself up like this?”

  Lorelei wanted to reiterate Elda's words, but she couldn't force them from her mouth. You wouldn't understand.

  They parked outside a nondescript brick building tucked away on a side street. The man came around and opened the back door.

  “Do you think you can walk now?” he asked gently. She could hear the hope in his voice. The old fellow couldn't carry her the way Mook had. She mustered strength and wobbled her way in the front door with their assistance.

  They entered a waiting room filled with wan people and Lorelei's heart sank. She knew it could be hours before she was seen. The kind woman rapped lightly on the intake window.

  Taped to the sliding glass was a poster that listed all the tests the clinic provided including HEP and HIV screenings. They offered safe sex kits and needle cleaning bleach kits. There was a poster about unwanted pregnancy and another about lice and scabies.

  A nurse with an irritated look came to the window, but as soon as she saw Lorelei her expression changed. She slid the window open quickly.

  “What's wrong with her?” the nurse asked.

  “She was apparently stung by a centipede. I think she's having an allergic reaction.”

  “Is she having trouble breathing?”

  Lorelei recognized this as a sure way to the front of the line. She nodded and grasped her throat.

  The nurse jumped to action. “Meet me at the door. Bring her on back.”

  In the exam room, the nurse helped ease her up onto a bed with a crackly green mattress that reminded Lorelei of fracturing ice on frozen puddles. She closed her eyes against the droning fluorescents. The florid disinfectant smell increased her headache.

  “Open up,” the nurse commanded. She stuck a thermometer under Lorelei's tongue. She slid a blood pressure cuff up on her good arm. The thermometer beeped and the nurse removed it.

  “One hundred,” she said with clipped efficiency.

  Lorelei was familiar with the white pulse ox clip with the red light that the nurse clipped to her finger.

  “This is to check your oxygen level,” the nurse said.

  Lorelei nodded.

  “Did you really get stung by a centipede or is this a track mark infection?”

  “Bug bite,” Lorelei said.

  “Okay.” The nurse crinkled her nose, then scribbled on a chart. When the oxygen results started to register she said, “You're doing okay. High nineties. You say you're having trouble breathing?”

  “I feel better now,” Lorelei said.

  “Right. You been smoking anything? Weed, crack, meth?”

  “I don't smoke.”

  The nurse looked doubtful again, but she secured an oxygen mask over Lorelei's nose.

  “A man brought this,” someone standing outside the curtain said. “I think it belongs to your patient.”

  “Is this your stuff?” the nurse asked.

  Lorelei nodded. She scanned the room for the kind woman who had helped her, but she was gone. Lorelei knew she would never see her again.

  A jagged pain raced through her when the nurse straightened her arm. She touched the inside of Lorelei's elbow, looking for track marks. Her arm and her shoulder crawled with fire, but she didn't dare ask for pain meds.

  “What sort of drugs do you take?” the nurse asked.

  “Nothing.” The mask muffled her voice, but her frustration with the line of questioning communicated well enough.

  “Look, no judgment here. I just need to know so I can help you.” The nurse looked tired. She had gentle brown eyes and a wig that was much too shiny and straight to be her own hair. She wore a pilled sweater over a smiley face smock that looked so soft it must have been washed a thousand times.

  A doctor came in, and the nurse reeled off all the symptoms she had collected on her chart—trouble breathing, slight temp, headache, nausea, swelling and redness in the arm.

  “How long ago did you get these stings?” the doctor asked.

  “I don't know. Early this morning, I guess.”

  “So about six hours ago? Well, that's actually good news young lady. If you were going to go into anaphylactic shock you would have already done it. Still,” he whistled, “this is one of the nastiest centipede attacks I've ever seen.” To the nurse he said, “She's definitely sensitive. Let's hook her up with an IV just to be safe. Let's give her epinephrine and a steroid to calm her skin reaction. Put her in a bed and let her sleep it off.”

  Within minutes of the shots, Lorelei was feeling better, and she drifted off into a black and dreamless sleep. When she awoke it was dark outside, and she heard coughing and a faint cry from a distant bed.

  “About time you woke up. I've been waiting for somebody to talk to all day.”

  She looked over at the next bed to see a cute boy about her age. His hair was bright orange. His clothes said street. He rolled his eyes toward a pregnant girl in the next bed, crying into a pillow. Behind her, a guy was passed out and snoring loudly. Even from three beds away, Lorelei could smell the sickly-sweet stench of alcohol. At the end of the long room a woman rocked a child in her arms.

  “They're not much for conversation, if you know what I mean,” he said.

  A smile crossed her lips, and she realized that she felt better.

  The boy said, “My friends call me Cargo
. What's your name?”

  She tried to say Lorelei, but her mouth was too dry to form words.

  “Here.” He reached a plastic pitcher on the table between them and poured her a cup of water. She sipped the tepid water slowly.

  “Lorelei,” she finally croaked.

  Another nurse, in another pilled sweater, came by to hand him a tiny white cup with a couple of pills rattling around in it.

  Cargo held it out to the nurse as if giving her a toast. “Bottoms up,” he said, and threw back the pills. He washed them down with water and opened his mouth for her to check inside. Satisfied, she moved on.

  “You here for meds?” she asked him.

  “Yeah. Had to get back on them. I was getting a little crazy, you know?” He wiggled his fingers by his face and rolled his eyes and whistled two notes. “Manic shit. Haven't slept in days. What about you?”

  “Centipede bite.” She held up her hand, happy to see that no pain shot through her this time.

  “Gnarly.”

  “What do you take? I mean for manic stage?” she asked.

  “Lamictal.”

  “That one make you itch?”

  “Like little squiggly creatures crawling under my skin. How'd you know?”

  “My brother used to take that. He'd scratch like he was going to tear his arm off. They're probably giving you generic. You've got to take the brand name. It won't make you itch so much.”

  “Like I have a choice.” He smiled. “What all stuff did your brother take?”

  “All kinds—Lithium, Seroquel. Stuff that made his muscles spasm. Some that made him lose his appetite. He got really skinny.”

  “Fun with side effects, huh? How's your brother now?”

  “I don't know. I haven't seen him in a while.”

  “Did he get better?”

  She shrugged. “I don't know. Like I said, haven't seen him.”

  The nurse returned.

  “How you feeling?” she asked Lorelei.

  “Better.”

  “That's good. Those steroids will fix you right up. Here, let me take your pulse.” The woman went through the routine of checking vitals. It was amazing how much attention doctors and nurses gave when they could see a physical problem—how little when they could not. It was the things people couldn't see or touch that made them turn away. Cargo was lucky to get any help since his problems were inside his head.

  “I'm hungry,” Lorelei said.

  “Well, honey, food is scarce around here. I can bring you some Nabs and a soda. That's about all you're going to get this late. We don't generally feed folks and I hate to tell you this, but nobody stays overnight.”

  “I have to leave?”

  “Everybody does.”

  She noticed the pregnant girl gathering her things.

  “You got somewhere to go?” the nurse asked hopefully.

  “Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

  The woman looked at her as if she knew the truth, but didn't push the subject. She had her own problems, probably a hungry family waiting at home.

  With the help of her orange-haired new friend, Lorelei loaded her pack. He tethered her sleeping bag to the pack for her, but she decided it was easier to balance the load if she carried it. The nurse had warned her that it had turned unusually cold, so she wore all her warm clothes, the most obvious sign of homelessness. Outside, the temperature was dropping. She got her bearings. She was a long way from the park, too far to walk in her condition.

  Cargo suggested that she come with him, but the last thing she wanted was to hang around with some guy who would talk her ear off all night.

  She considered her plight. Even if she made it back to Shoal Creek, the probability was high that her group had been run out of camp like everybody else. Of course, they would come back. They always did. Still, she wasn't going to walk all that way to find nobody there. It was too late to get into a shelter. She'd have to find somewhere to sleep, a cemetery or school grounds.

  But first she had to get something to eat and she wasn't going to spange tonight. It was too cold, and she still felt weak. She walked toward South Congress, the area the town called SoCo. It was a long shot, but with her bandaged hand she was more likely to solicit some serious sympathy.

  Emily

  EMILY DRAGGED the black spongy bar mats through the kitchen, past the heated ballgame banter. To Angel and his sous-chef Tino, futbol was religion. Frank had bought the guys a television for the kitchen and mounted it to the wall above the food prep station. He'd gotten them Telemundo so they could watch la Liga Mexicana.

  Angel and Tino quarreled and shouted, shaking their fists at the TV and spewing Spanish. Angel had polished his kitchen skills and his English in the resorts of Cancun, but Spanish was always the language of futbol. At times, the kitchen crew's shouts could be heard above the music in the bar, always some disagreement over which team was superior. Angel liked the dominating Atlante from his hometown of Cancun. Tino criticized Atlante for being a glamour team that imported talent. Tino, apparently a purist, liked the allnational Mexico City team Cruz Azul.

  Emily paused to watch them rant.

  “No, that's okay, guys. I got it,” she said, propping the door open with her butt. “I don't need any help. Thanks anyway. Really. I'm fine.” They didn't bother to look her way.

  Emily leaned the heavy mats against a wall and turned the hose on them.

  Someone stepped from the shadows. Emily gasped at the looming figure. She thought it was a hefty guy, but then she realized it was the tall homeless girl with a big pack strapped to her back. She clutched a sleeping bag. One of her hands was wrapped in bright-white gauze.

  “Hey,” Emily said.

  “Hey.”

  Emily waited.

  “So, you got any food you don't need?” the girl finally asked.

  Emily finished dragging the last mat up against a wall to drain while she stalled. She brushed her hands off on her pants.

  “How'd you know I work here?”

  Lorelei shrugged. “You followed me, so one day I followed you.”

  “I didn't really follow you. I just saw you at Batfest.”

  “Whatever. You got any food or not?”

  Emily waited a moment, trying to give the impression that she was deciding if she wanted to help. Then, “Sure, there's just me and the cooks here right now. They're cool. Come on in.”

  Lorelei trailed Emily inside. Tino's hands were down in the industrial sink, but his eyes were on the TV. He flung soapsuds in the air and cried, “Que idiotas!”

  Angel laughed and dried knives.

  “Excuse me, guys,” Emily said. “This is Lorelei.”

  Tino only nodded, but Angel extended his hand.

  “Hola, Miss. I'm Angel and this is my cousin, Tino.”

  She started to shake and then remembered her injury and pulled back.

  “What happened to you?” Angel asked.

  “Centipede,” she said. She pouted like a little girl, an unexpected change in demeanor.

  Angel grimaced and sucked air through his teeth. “I have felt the scorpion's sting, but not the centipede. Did it hurt?”

  “A lot!”

  “Ay, caramba!”

  This made her smile, and her stance became less guarded.

  “Hey, are you hungry?” Angel asked. “I was about to make myself a sandwich. How about you, Emily? You hungry?”

  Emily looked around at his clean kitchen.

  “Sure, man,” she said. “I'd love a grilled cheese.”

  “What about you? You want a grilled cheese or maybe turkey sandwich?” he asked Lorelei. He lifted a skillet down from its high hook.

  “Could I have turkey and cheese?” the girl asked in a childish way. Emily thought Angel must seem fatherly to her. She probably missed having someone to feed her and protect her.

  “Si! Turkey and cheese! What about my orange juice, Emily?” Angel was a recovering alcoholic and juice was all he ever drank.

  “Lorelei,
you want anything?” Emily heaved open the steel door to the walk-in.

  “Juice is good.”

  “Tino?”

  He shook his head and continued to clean without taking his eyes from the game.

  The walk-in cooler smelled like Emily's grandparents’ basement cellar, earthy and weird. She found the jug of juice. She grabbed a giant jar of pickles and slammed the door with a metallic thud. She wiggled up onto a countertop and began fishing for pickles with a giant serving fork.

  “Pickle?” she asked, holding out the big fork with one skewered to the end.

  Lorelei grabbed it and crunched it down in three bites.

  Angel slapped a slab of butter into a frying pan. He chattered on about his new baby, pointing with a spatula to a photo of his wife and baby girl. There was another of his whole family—Angel, his wife, their baby and both of their sons.

  Lorelei studied the photos with genuine interest, but her eyes kept drifting back to the frying pan.

  Angel slipped the toasty sandwiches onto a plate and cut each in half. He piled the plates high with salty potato chips. Emily poured glasses of OJ. Angel crammed his mouth full and patted his stomach.

  “Cochino,” Tino said, and snickered.

  “I know, I know,” Angel said rubbing his round gut. He winked at Lorelei. “He just called me a pig.”

  She smiled again and ate as if she hadn't eaten in a week.

  “Lorelei, I like that name. She's a superhero. Right?” Angel asked.

  She stopped eating for a second. “Wow, how'd you know that?” she asked, her mouth full of bread and cheese.

  “Yeah, how did you know that?” Emily asked.

  “I have teenage sons. They read comic books. I like them too,” Angel said. “And tattoos.” He pushed up his sleeves, revealing tats on his forearms. One was a snapping banner that read, Familia, another the Atlante team brand emblazoned across a soccer ball. A small scroll on the inside of his arm read Easy Does It. Another was Speedy Gonzales, his floppy feet accelerating, air puffs shooting out behind him.

  Lorelei touched the cartoon. “Why do you have that?”

  “Because I'm the fastest cook in Austin.”

  She studied his work but didn't offer to elaborate on her own ink.

  Tino scrubbed the skillet Angel had used, then pulled the plug. Water gurgled and burped down the drain.