by Milly Taiden
“My mother’s favorite color was blue.”
“That’s a good one,” I said.
“She said it was the color of forever. That’s why the sky and the ocean are blue. They go on forever, just like she would.” Cynthia squeezed her eyes shut. “But she didn’t.”
My chest tightened so hard, I could barely breathe. “But you still draw pictures of her. You still remember the things she said. That’s one kind of forever.”
Cynthia opened her eyes. They seemed duller today. “I want the other kind. The kind where you don’t go away.”
A little beep went off on a monitor. I looked over. The monitor read 102 degrees. Angela moved some of the cooling packs from Cynthia’s back to her belly. “I’m going to call for a gel blanket,” she said.
“I made a picture for you,” Cynthia said. “Since I missed art class.”
“What did you do?”
“It’s on my table.” She tried to roll over, but Angela held out her hand to stop her.
“I’ll get it,” she said. “Let me talk to the nurses real quick.” She punched the button on the remote and asked for a gel blanket.
When that was done, Angela pulled an oversized piece of art paper from beneath a pile of crayons and colored pencils. “Here you go.”
Cynthia tried to reach her hand out, but she began shivering violently, so she tucked her arm back against her body. She tried to smile. “This part is not fun,” she said. “I’ll be better later.”
I wondered how many rounds of chemotherapy she had done, how many times it takes for something to become so routine that being violently sick is just “this part” and not something extraordinary or rare. This girl had more strength than pretty much anybody I’d ever met.
I took the picture from Angela. “Let’s see what you’ve got here.” I angled it so we both could see. “There’s the hospital,” I said, pointing at a big building with a medical cross on it. “Is this you in the window?” A figure was lying on a bed.
She nodded. Her eyes were barely staying open now.
Above the building were several people. One was in a lab coat. “Is this Dr. Marks?”
“Yes.”
“And Aunt Angela?” The funny glasses gave that one away.
Cynthia nodded.
“Is this me?” A girl with pigtails and striped stockings hovered over the hospital.
“Yes.”
Next to me was a woman with wings. “And this, is it your mom?”
“Yes.”
“Your mom had red hair?”
“Yes.” She tried to say something else, but the words all ran together.
The monitor beeped again. 103. Angela got on her phone. “I’m calling Dr. Marks. It might be time for you to go, Tina. I’m sorry.”
Cynthia opened and closed her mouth a few times. Her eyes rolled up, then to the side, like she wasn’t seeing anything. Angela moved the gels around and hit the nurse button again. “We’re spiking,” she said. “We need some help.”
I stood up. Cynthia no longer seemed to know I was there. “I’ll come back tomorrow, check on her.”
Angela nodded in acknowledgement, but she was busy working over Cynthia, sponging her body with a wet rag. I felt a terrible sense of panic that something would happen to the girl during the night and I wouldn’t know.
But I had Darion’s number. I could ask.
I moved to the door just as Darion dashed in. He saw me but didn’t pause. “Where are we now?” he asked.
“103. It’s rising fast.”
“Vomiting?”
“None.”
I backed to the door. Cynthia was rolling her head back and forth on the pillow. I worried about Darion. How could he manage? This was his daughter!
He began to examine her, then two nurses entered the room. I had to go. I shouldn’t be there. I moved into the hallway, but couldn’t go any farther. It was too much. I was too frightened. I had to see if she was okay.
I leaned against the wall, my heart hammering. I could hear Darion’s voice, strong and unfazed, telling the nurses a medication to give her, and how much. He seemed calm and in control. I didn’t know how he could do it.
One nurse left, and another one came, holding a big silver blanket.
They would take care of her.
I waited another fifteen minutes, anxious. A few other staff members came and went. I asked one how she was, but she asked, “Who are you?” so I let it go. I knew hardly anyone on the evening shift.
Darion came out finally, tapping on his iPad as if he’d left any regular patient.
“Darion?”
He stopped and looked up. He seemed shocked to see me. “Tina? You’re still here?”
“She looked so terrible. I was so worried.”
“She’s all right. We got her fever down. She’ll sleep now. She’s okay. She’ll be okay.”
“Will you stay with her?”
Something crossed his face, maybe regret. Maybe concern that I knew his secret. “I’ll probably stay close by. It’s an experimental drug. We have to watch her closely since there isn’t a lot of data to go on.”
We were talking like two colleagues, as if last night had never happened at all.
“Darion — I’m sorry about the beach.”
A nurse came out of the room and walked between us.
He motioned for me to follow him down the hall. “Let’s talk about this someplace quieter.”
“I know you have other things to worry about. I just wanted to say I was sorry. Sometimes I forget that there is a bigger picture.”
He moved us into a small waiting area with a few cushioned chairs. It was empty. “It’s fine. We all have things. Tough things.”
“Will you let me know how she is? Later tonight? Text me or something?”
His eyebrows drew together. Maybe because he knew I cared about her too. I wished he would confess. Let me know that she was more than a patient. Maybe soon.
“I will.”
I wanted to kiss him. I really did. The urge was so intense, I almost did it. But we were right in the middle of everything, a nurse walking by every few minutes. “Okay,” I said. “Good night then, Darion.”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Good night, Tina.”
His lab coat flared a little as he whirled around to stride away. I’m sure he intimidated his coworkers with that “Don’t mess with me” posture, as though what he was doing was far more important than anything they might try to stop him to ask about.
He needed to relax.
I needed to grow up.
We could each stand to be a bit more like the other.
***
Chapter Twenty Eight: Dr. Darion
It had been a long night.
I didn’t leave the hospital at all, but I had anticipated this and packed a change of clothes. I napped in the lounge, and once on a gurney in Surgical Suite B, surrounded by memories of Tina and the lingering smell of the custodian’s cigarettes.
Cynthia leveled out by late evening, and we reduced the drugs in her system and removed the coolants. Angela was exhausted, I knew. We all were. I realized I might need to hire a second nurse so we could have someone around the clock. This was ludicrous, though, really. We were in the hospital. She already had 24-hour care.
I showered downstairs next to the gym and checked on Cynthia before I was even supposed to arrive on shift. She was still sleeping, but her vitals were fine. Temperature still up a bit, but 100 was nothing like 105, where we’d topped out before getting it down.
We were out of the woods. She was going to get better now.
I walked down Tina’s hall late morning, intending just to wave. She had been kind and calm on the phone when I managed to call last night. We talked of Cynthia, and the coincidence of the double gift of the markers. She didn’t bring up the beach night again, and neither did I. It seemed understood that we were past it. And I knew her a little better now. I realized she had some triggers.
But when I g
ot to her window, she was alone inside. Instead of just walking by, I poked my head into the room. “Got a second?”
Tina stood up from the box of markers she was wiping down. “Sure.” She tweaked her ponytails, a gesture that made me smile. When she wasn’t all upset, she was damn cute.
The big window made us super visible, so I stood by the door. “I just wanted to see you.”
“How is Cynthia?”
“She’s stable. Low-grade fever, but nothing like yesterday.”
Tina relaxed her clenched hands. “Good, I’m so glad. I was so scared for her.”
“We’ve had worse, actually.”
“I don’t know how you stay so calm.”
I leaned against the door. “That’s what we have to do.” I wanted to hold her close, pull her into me. I thought about asking her down to the surgical suite, but that seemed self-indulgent.
Tina tugged on the bottom of her sweater. She had this bohemian chic look today, a fitted ice blue cable knit over a deliberately wrinkly skirt. And the stockings, of course. Blue and beige stripes. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was wearing a bra.
“Come here,” she said, and headed toward the supply closet.
I glanced back at the window. As soon as I stepped away from the door, I would be visible.
“I won’t sully your sterling reputation,” she said. “Well, not on purpose.”
She opened the door, but the closet was not a walk-in, just a set of shelves.
“I don’t think I’ll fit,” I said, but she grabbed my hand and pulled me behind the open door.
Now I got it. We fit in a triangle of space formed by the corner of the room and the open door. No one could see us now.
I pulled her in tight. For just a moment, I let the stress and fear over Cynthia flow through me. I could feel it, actually allow it to penetrate. Jesus. How did families without the resources I had manage this? Even though I could control every aspect of her care, I still felt helpless. So much of how a disease progressed was left completely to chance.
I rested my cheek on Tina’s head. She gripped me around the waist, her face buried in my lab coat. Something surged in me, a protectiveness I’d felt for no one but my sister. Damn. She was getting to me.
My finger lifted her chin so she looked up at me. “Can I see you later?” I asked.
She nodded. “Meet me down here when you get free.”
I leaned down to kiss her. Her mouth was paradise, soft and pliant. I intended to keep it simple and light, but within seconds I felt hungry for her. I held her head with both hands and pressed her into me, diving between her lips, tasting her, spearmint and coffee.
I felt lost, running my hands along her body. The sweater was soft and textured. I desperately wanted to know about the bra, a little secret to carry with me through the day. I ran my hand across her breast and felt the nipple harden beneath the sweater. None today. I smiled against her mouth.
Just one touch. One brush of her skin. My hand slid down her side and up under the sweater. I bumped across each rib as I moved up her body. My thumb rested at the base of her breast, rounding the curve. When my palm cupped her, she exhaled against my mouth in a sigh.
Too much. I wanted her so terribly. I had to pull myself away. Get control. I withdrew from her sweater and ran my hand through my hair.
She straightened her clothes. We looked at each other a moment and burst out laughing.
“You’re insane, Dr. Marks,” she said.
“I just suspected you weren’t performing the recommended breast self-exam, Ms. Schwartz,” he said. “I have to look after my patients.”
She pushed me against the wall and pressed against me. “How about testicular exams? Should we add those in? I’m not very skilled, but I make up for it in enthusiasm.”
God. I was rock hard. Thank goodness for the lab coat. “I can’t get enough of you,” I said.
Tina’s expression was soft and easy, a gentle smile. “We’ll meet up later.”
I pushed away from the wall. “I look forward to it.”
She peeked around the door. “All clear.” She pushed it back around until it closed. “Thank you for your concern about my mammary health.”
“Anything that keeps you proactive.” I couldn’t stop smiling as I headed for the hall. Then I stopped and turned around. “I might have to send you text messages reminding you of the body parts you should take particular care with, or I will need to examine them.”
She sat back down at the table, resuming her marker cleaning. “Then I just might have to tell you which of my body parts should be at the top of the list.”
I swallowed hard. I was done for with this one. And the way Cynthia felt about her too — I had never been this involved, ever. And we’d been on one date. One mostly failed date.
I opened the door to head back to my rounds. But I’m pretty sure a big part of me stayed behind.
***
Chapter Twenty Nine: Tina
The doctor had me snared. I’d have to run with it for a bit. That was the problem with getting involved with someone at work. You couldn’t just walk away and never see them again.
I was in trouble with this one.
I put the markers away and got out the canvases I’d bought for my time with Albert. I had called the psychiatric ward to ask after him, but he’d been transferred out to a regular hall. No one was sure where just yet.
I would be ready in case he came.
Meanwhile, all I had to do was wait and brood over Darion. I had planned all along to do this one-and-done, and then I had stalled to avoid having to dump him before I was ready.
But now I could tell that neither was going to happen. I wanted to see where this was going to go, and I was fairly sure I wouldn’t leave after.
Yep, I was done for.
I pulled out a sheet of construction paper and began the rough sketch of the painting I had planned after seeing the sunset at Torrey Pines. The water line, the cliff, the mother, the shadow of the boy.
I realized the boy was too tall and erased him and tried again. Even with just an outline, I felt a wave of grief as I outlined his sleek hair, his shape, the bulge of a sagging sock. I knew none of those things about Peanut. If he would have been tall or short. Curly haired or straight. Pudgy or a weed.
My wrists ached like they sometimes did when I thought of him. It was psychosomatic. I knew this from the quack docs I’d been forced to talk to after I got out of the hospital. Thankfully the social worker for my case decided that I could go to a pregnancy loss support group instead.
Those women had been great. I sometimes talked to Stella, the leader. She still ran the group even though she was long past having babies, and never had one herself. They had gotten me through a really rough time. When I was on the suicide talk circuit, lots of times I’d pull up things they told me to pass on to people who were hurting, or thinking of hurting themselves.
The right person seemed to come along when you needed them. You just had to open your eyes and see that they were there. Then open your ears and listen.
Both of those things were hard to do when you were buried in pain, though. I understood that too.
The door opened, and an aide in pale pink scrubs wheeled Albert in. I was so relieved to see him, I wanted to cry.
Albert waved. He wasn’t in his usual jeans and flannel anymore. He had on pajama pants and a hospital gown. His arms were exposed below the short sleeves, and the angry gashes on his wrists stood out like someone had stitched them with garish thread.
“I missed you yesterday,” I said.
“Mr. Al got moved to a new room,” the aide said. “He’s on six now.”
“That means I can visit you!” I said.
Albert looked up at the aide. “See, I told you. All the women are going to show and keep me up at night.”
The aide patted his shoulder. “I bet you’re right, a fine catch like yourself.” She headed for the door. “I’ll be back for him in an hour.”
>
“What are you working on, Miss Tina?” he asked. “I see you’ve graduated to real canvases.” His shaky finger pointed at the stands.
I turned the sketch around so he could see it. “I went to a cliff the other night and saw this scene. Well, I saw the sunset. I imagined the scene.”
Albert examined the sketch. “Very nice.”
“It’s not right somehow.”
He nodded. “You’re using one-point perspective here.” He pointed at the woman and boy. “The point of view is another human behind them.”
He picked up a blue pencil from the table. His tremor was noticeable today, but he sketched anyway. “If you shift to three-point, the bird’s-eye view, then it becomes another vision altogether.”
Now, instead of the woman’s back, we also saw the top of her head, just the tip of her nose. And the shadow was even more pronounced as different from her.
“It’s God-like,” I said.
“Exactly. But not really God, necessarily. Just viewed from a broader point of view, something more all encompassing.”
“I was terrible at three-point in school,” I said.
“Never let a technicality stand in the way of doing a painting the way it demands to be done. Learn what you need to know.”
I pulled out a fresh piece of paper. I sketched the scene again, but this time, when I got to the shadow of the boy, he was no longer just an outline filled with shadow. He became three-dimensional too.
“I’m losing my idea,” I said.
Albert shook his head. “No, you are finding the truth in your work. Start again.”
I set aside that sketch and pulled out another piece of paper.
This time I brought the view back down, somewhere in the middle between directly behind, as though I was standing at their backs, and above, as if I was flying over their heads.
“Fill in a bit of the scene they are looking at now,” Albert said.
The cliff was more pronounced from this angle. The rocks were craggy, and the ground below was visible, unlike from the other view, which focused on the happiness and light of the sunset.
I looked up at Albert, astonished. “I wasn’t just supposed to draw the beauty of the sun, but also the danger of the fall.”
