Wetlands

by Charlotte Roche

  I lie back and wait for Peter.

  It’s dark outside. I can see myself reflected in the window. The bed is very high so the nurses don’t hurt their backs maneuvering the patients. The glass goes the entire length of the wall from right to left and from the ceiling down to the radiator. When it’s dark outside and light inside it functions like a giant mirror. I didn’t need the camera at all, eh? I turn my ass to the window and crane my head as best I can. It’s all blurry. Of course. It’s double-pane glass. It reflects two images, slightly staggered. Good to have the camera after all. When it’s dark out I can lie with my ass to the door and see who’s entering the room without turning around. Cool. But can everybody outside see me now? Oh, who cares. They know it’s a hospital. It’s impossible not to recognize it. At worst they’ll think it’s a poor little crazy girl who, out of her head on medication, left her bare ass facing the window—and they’ll feel sorry for me. That works for me.

  Here in the hospital I’m becoming sort of a nudist. I’m not usually like that. Well, when it comes to things pussy-related I guess I am. But not when it comes to my ass.

  I just lie here and, because any motion hurts my ass so bad, I don’t even bother to cover myself. Anyone who comes in sees my gaping flesh wound and a bit of my peach. You get used to it quickly. Nothing is embarrassing anymore. I’m an ass patient. Anyone can see that, and I behave accordingly.

  The reason I have such a healthy attitude about my pussy while I’m normally so uptight about my ass is that the way my mother raised me made it difficult for me to crap. When I was a little girl she told me all the time that she never went to the bathroom. And never farted. She held everything inside until it disintegrated. No wonder I had trouble.

  As a result of being told all of this, I get totally ashamed if someone hears or smells me going to the bathroom. In public toilets, even if I’m just pissing and a fart escapes when I loosen the muscles down there, I’ll do anything to avoid the person in the next stall being able to put a face to the noise. I’m the same way with the smell of my crap. When people are coming and going in the stalls around me and I’ve stunk the place up, I’ll wait in my stall until there are no more witnesses around. Only then will I come out.

  As if crapping is a crime. My schoolmates always laugh at me for my exaggerated sense of shame.

  I also don’t like to get dressed in my room at home. There are posters everywhere of my favorite bands. They’re always looking right into the camera for the photos, so it feels as if they are following my every move with their eyes. So if I’m changing in my room and they could get a peek at my pussy or tits, I hide behind my couch. Though around real boys and men I don’t care.

  Someone knocks. Peter walks in. He places the pizza on the metal nightstand and puts the two bottles of beer down—a little too loudly—next to it. It all just barely fits.

  He looks me in the eye the whole time. I stare back. I’m good at that. I think he likes taking care of someone roughly the same age as he is. It’s nice for him.

  “You want one of the beers?”

  “That’s nice of you, but I’m working. If I walk around here with beer breath there’ll be hell to pay.”

  I hate being told no. I should have been able to figure out that he’s not allowed to drink on the job. Embarrassing. This is a hospital, Helen, not a bordello.

  His gaze starts to wander. Is he looking out the window? Past me? Wait, no, he must be looking at my peach reflected in the window. His nightshift is starting off well. I like Peter.

  “Okay, thanks. I guess I’ll eat.”

  He leaves. I open up the pizza box and look at it. I wonder how I’ll be able to eat it without any utensils. The Marinara guys haven’t even cut the crust with a pizza roller. Should I rip bites out of it like an animal? Suddenly Peter walks back in. With silverware. And walks back out grinning. And then comes in again. What now? In his hand is a plastic baggie with a piece of tape on it. There’s something written on the tape.

  “It says here I’m supposed to give this to you. Something to do with the operation. Do you know anything about it? Did they find something on you and need to return it?”

  “I wanted to see the wedge of skin after they cut it out of me. I couldn’t let something be cut out of me while I was unconscious and then not see it before it was tossed in the garbage.”

  “Speaking of garbage, it’s my job to ensure this baggie and its contents are properly disposed of in the special medical-waste bin.”

  He takes his duties very seriously. He speaks in such a highbrow manner about them. He could have just said he had to make sure the stuff got thrown out instead of “properly disposed of.” It would make him seem more human and less like a robot repeating orders. He hands me the baggie but doesn’t leave. But I’m only going to open it when I’m alone. I hold the baggie in my hands and stare at Peter until he finally leaves. My pizza is getting cold. But this is more important—and besides, I’ve heard real gourmets don’t eat things really hot because it masks the flavors. Really hot soup tastes like nothing at all. It must be true of pizza, too. If you make something poorly, just serve it as hot as possible and nobody will notice it tastes bad because they’ll all have charred their taste buds. It’s true of the other extreme, too: cold. You drink nasty drinks—like tequila—as cold as possible so you can get them down.

  The baggie is see-through, zipped shut. A little slide is all it takes to open it. Inside is another bag, smaller and white instead of see-through. I can feel the cut-out piece inside it. No more packaging. If I just pull it out it’ll make a mess here in the bed. I rip off the top of the pizza box. It’s easy. It’s perforated along the edge, probably for just such a situation. When you need something to put a bloody piece of flesh on. I put the cardboard box top in my lap beneath the baggie. Do I need rubber gloves to pull this thing out? No. It’s from my own body. So I can’t catch anything, no matter how bloody it is. I touch what used to surround this clump of flesh—my gaping wound—all day long without gloves. Okay. So out it comes. It feels like liver or something else from the butcher shop. I lay out all the pieces on the cardboard. I’m disappointed. Lots of little pieces. No wedge. Notz’s description made it sound as if it would be a thin, oblong piece of flesh that would look like the venison filets mom makes when we have guests in the fall and winter. Dark red and slick before being roasted, kind of shiny, like liver. But this here is goulash. Little pieces. Some pieces have yellow spots—the infection, no doubt—that look the way freezer burn does in commercials. They didn’t cut it out in one motion, not all together in one single piece. Of course, I’m no dead deer, but a living girl. Perhaps it’s better that they took care of it in small increments. And paid attention to the sphincter. Rather than carving out a magnificent anal filet just for the sake of a good presentation. Relax, Helen. Things are always different than you anticipate. At least you tried to picture something, imagined the smallest details, asked questions to try to verify things—and now you know more as a result. I learned that from dad. To try to figure things out so thoroughly it makes you puke. Anyway, I’m happy to have seen the pieces before they’re cremated along with the other medical waste. I don’t repack the pieces into the baggie. I just put the baggie on top of them and push it down so it sticks to them. I put the box top with the pieces of flesh and baggie on it on the metal nightstand. My fingers are covered with blood and goop. Wipe them on the bed? That would make a real mess. Not on my tree-top-angel outfit, either. Same mess. Hmm. Well. It is all stuff from my own body. Even if it’s infected. I lick my fingers off one at a time. I’m always proud of myself when I come up with an idea like that. It’s better than sitting helplessly in bed and hoping somebody happens by with wet wipes. Why should I be disgusted by my own blood and pus? I’m not squeamish about infections. When I pop pimples and get pus on my finger, I happily eat that. And when I squeeze a blackhead and the translucent little worm with the black head comes out, I wipe that up with a finger and then lick it off. When
the sandman leaves puslike crumbs in the corners of my eyes, I eat them in the morning, too. And when I have scabs on a cut, I always pick off the top layer in order to eat it.

  I eat my pizza by myself.

  I don’t like eating alone. It scares me. When you stick something in your mouth, you should be able to tell someone else what it tastes like. My ass begins to twitch. What have you learned, Helen? Don’t suffer any more than necessary. Ring the emergency buzzer. Peter comes in and I tell him I need painkillers because the pain is starting up again. He looks confused and says there’s nothing about overnight pain medication on the chart he’s been given. With a big piece of pizza in my mouth I say, “There must be, Robin said all I had to do was ask and I’d get them.”

  This can’t be happening. I finally ask before it gets bad and now I can’t get any for the entire night? Help. Peter leaves to call the doctor at home. He says he doesn’t have the authority to do anything that’s not specifically listed on the chart. I’m feeling sick with fear. I was operated on today and I can’t get any pain medication on the first night? I open both beers with the handle of the fork. I’m one of the few girls I know who can do that. Very practical. Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work I go. I drink the beers down as fast as I can, one after the other. My ass is getting worse and worse, and my insides are cold from the beer.

  Peter, Peter, Peter, hurry up. Bring me medication. I close my eyes. The pain is getting stronger and I’m beginning to cramp up. I know this drill. I cross my hands on my chest and I’m nothing more than my ass.

  I hear him come in and, with my eyes still closed, ask whether I’ll get something.

  “What are you talking about,” says a female voice.

  I open my eyes and see a woman in a nurse’s uniform but one that’s a different color from all the others here. The others all wear light blue and she’s in light green. Maybe she had a laundry mishap.

  “Good evening. Please forgive me for disturbing you so late. The rounds took longer than usual today. I’m a candy striper.”

  What? She must have broken out of the psychiatric ward. I just look at her. She must be crazy, I think, and I’ll leave her to believe what she wants. My ass hurts bad. And it’s getting worse. That’s the only thing I could possibly say to her. That would be a great conversation: “I’m a candy striper.” “Yeah, and my ass hurts.”

  I watch her with tired, half-open eyes like a grandmother. It seems to me she talks very slowly—each word seems to echo.

  “That means I’m a volunteer. I try to make things more comfortable for the people here in the hospital. We candy stripers”—there are others!—“run errands for patients, get them phone cards, pick up their mail, that sort of thing.”

  Very well.

  “Can you get me painkillers?”

  “No, we’re not authorized to do that. We’re not nurses. We just look like them.” She snorts. It’s supposed to be a laugh.

  “Please leave me alone. I’m sorry, but I’m in pain and I’m waiting for a nurse and some medication. Normally I’m nicer. I’ll call you if I need anything.”

  As she leaves, she asks, “Where would you call?”

  Get out. I need peace and quiet.

  I’m not going to be able to keep it together much longer. I take deep breaths. And blow them back out loudly. My hand wanders down to my pubic mound and I pull my knees up toward my chest. Although this position hurts, I stay in it. Into the pain with you, Helen. The other hand I put over my ass crack. This is bad. The kind of pain that makes you feel extremely lonely and scared. I think to myself, no patient should have to be in pain in a country as rich as this; I think, there’s enough medicine for everyone here. I ring the buzzer. Peter comes running in. He apologizes that it’s taken so long. He couldn’t reach the doctor at first. He found out that the day shift had made a mistake. I was supposed to get an electronic device so I could self-administer pain medication. They were supposed to have the anesthesiologist attach one that would allow me just to click with my thumb to get doses of the medicine through the catheter in my arm. They forgot. Forgot? I’m at their mercy. Forgot. And now?

  “You can have strong tablets upon request all night long. Here’s the first one.”

  I pop it into my mouth and wash it down with the dregs of the beer. Peter clears away the pizza box. He’s probably forgotten he’s responsible for the medical waste. Hospital of the forgetful. My painkillers forgotten, my rectal goulash forgotten. We’ll see what else gets forgotten. The half-eaten mushroom pizza sits on top covering everything. My goulash ends up in the normal trash. I like that. I don’t say anything. He also throws out the beer bottles, very carefully so they don’t bang against each other. Very delicate, Peter.

  Because of the pain, my shoulder muscles are pulled all the way up to my ears, stretched taut like rubber bands. Now, after taking the pill, they begin to slowly relax and I can breathe more easily. I need to piss from the beer, but I can’t get up. No worries. I fall asleep.

  When I wake up it’s still dark. I don’t have a clock. Wait, my camera has a clock in it. I turn it on and take a picture of the room; when I view a shot, it always says when it was taken, right? 2:46 a.m. Too bad. I’d hoped the pill would allow me to sleep through the night. Did Peter leave more pills here?

  I turn on the light. It’s terribly bright and white. I’m dizzy. I guess these tablets they’re giving me are pretty strong. I’m having trouble thinking straight. My eyes adjust to the nightmarish light. Why did I bother with the clock in the camera? I have a mobile phone. You’re funny sometimes, Helen. It must be the medication. I hope. I see a tablet in a little plastic cup on the nightstand. Down the hatch. I can do it without a drink. It tastes disgustingly chemical. It takes a long time before I have enough spit to swallow it. Gulp. And it’s down. I turn off the light and try to go back to sleep. Can’t. My bladder’s full. Very full. At least it’s my bladder bothering me and not my ass. There’s a noise bothering me. It’s a loud hissing. From outside, I think. Sounds like the exhaust pipe of the hospital’s air-conditioning system. They must have moved it right outside my window while I was asleep. I refuse to go to the bathroom. You’re going to have to fall asleep with a full bladder, Helen, or not at all. To block out the hiss I put the pillow on top of my head. Top ear blocked by the pillow, bottom ear by the mattress.

  The hiss in my head is now as loud as the air conditioner outside. I press my eyelids together and try to force myself to sleep. Think about something else, Helen. But what?

  I smell something.

  I fear it’s gas. I sniff and sniff again. It still smells like gas. A gas leak. I can almost hear it. Sssssssss. Just to be sure not to make a fool of myself, I wait a little while longer. I hold my breath. I count a few seconds and then take another deep breath. It’s definitely gas. Turn on the light. I stand up. The motion hurts. But who cares. Better to have your ass hurt than to get blown sky high.

  I go out into the hall and call.

  “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  Mom always forbid us to call out “hello.” She thought it sounded as if you were talking down to handicapped people.

  I’ll make an exception. It’s an emergency.

  “Hello?”

  It’s silent in the hallway. Hospitals are creepy at night.

  A nurse comes out of the nurses’ station. Thankfully it’s not a man. Where’s Peter?

  “Can you come check this out? It smells like gas in my room.”

  Her face becomes very serious. Good, she believes me.

  We go into my room and sniff around. I can’t smell it anymore. The strong gas smell. It’s gone. No gas, no nothing. It’s happened again.

  “Oh, no, I guess it doesn’t. My mistake.” I exaggeratedly raise the corners of my mouth.

  I’m hoping to make it look as if I was joking.

  I don’t pull it off very well. I can’t believe I’ve fooled myself again. For the hundredth time. Approximately.

  She looks at me full of disdain
and leaves. She’s right—it’s nothing to joke about. But it wasn’t meant to be one. The worst gas incident so far—except for the real one—happened at home. One night when I was trying to fall asleep I was sure I smelled gas. The smell just kept getting stronger. Because I know gas is lighter than air—even though it’s hard to believe—I thought I was well situated lying there in bed. It’s not far off the floor.

  I also know it takes a long time for all the rooms of a building to fill with gas and for the gas to slowly descend from the ceiling and spread out. I was sure my mom and brother were already dead. Whether the leak was in the basement or the kitchen, their rooms would be full by now.

  I lay in bed a long time with my eyes nearly closed—because of lack of oxygen, I thought, though it turned out to be from sleepiness—thinking about what I should do.

  I thought if I got out of bed I might cause a spark and it would be my fault if the apartment blew up and I died. The others were already dead—it wouldn’t matter to them if the place exploded.

  I decided to climb out of bed very slowly and inch my way outside on the floor.

  The apartment was silent. If I made it out alive I would still have my father, who, luckily, didn’t live in that deadly building. That’s the one advantage to having divorced parents.

  Lying on the floor I reached up for the handle of the front door and opened it. It took a long time to make it down the hall, snaking my way across the carpet. As soon as I was outside I took a few deep breaths. I’d made it.

  I walked away from the building so I wouldn’t be hit by any flying bricks if the place blew up.

  I stood on the sidewalk in my nightgown, lit up by the only street lamp on our block, and looked at the tomb of my mother and brother.

  There was a light on in the living room. I could see mom on the couch with a book in her hand. At first I thought she had suffocated and was frozen in that position. Rather improbable.

  Then she turned a page. She was alive, and I realized I had fooled myself again.