“Well, I’m in Virginia,” Mitsy says frantically. She points to a fork in the country road. “Turn there,” she whispers to Dane. “To the right.”
“What?” says Pandora. “You’re breaking up.”
“I SAID I’M IN VIR-GIN-IA,” Mitsy pronounces loudly and with exaggerated articulation. “VIR-GIN…”
“Got it,” says Pandora. “How did you get there?”
“I drove.”
After a pause, Pandora says, “Well, that’s amazing, Mitsy Michaels. Kudos to you. I’m impressed—you driving all the way down to Virginia? Huh.”
“I came to see Sydney,” says Mitsy. “To surprise her. She came down here with Hannah for a few days against my better judgment, not that I gave them permission. I emphatically did not. But I, um…” she chokes up, “after they left, I…I realized I haven’t…I don’t know, Pandora. I just haven’t been the best mother.”
After a lengthy pause, Pandora says, “Wow, Mitsy, this really is progress.”
“Oh my God you nearly killed that pig!” Mitsy shrieks.
“Excuse me?” says Pandora.
“Oh, not you,” says Mitsy. “Dane. Uh, rather me…I. I almost killed a pig. Driving.”
“What the hell is a pig doing in the road?” says Dane. “A fucking pig!” He smacks the steering wheel and belly laughs. “Pigs are awesome! Look at that porker!”
“What’s going on?” says Pandora.
“Nothing,” says Mitsy. “Just…a pig.”
“I’m not seeing you behind the steering wheel,” Pandora says. “I’m not getting that image.”
“Oh,” says Mitsy. “Well…we’re switching. We just switched.”
“Have you seen Sydney?” Pandora asks.
Mitsy detects anxiety in her mentor’s voice, which helps her forget the blatant lie she just told. “Why?” she asks Pandora. “Are you sensing a problem? Are your sources telling you there’s a problem? Do you see a problem?”
“Don’t play games with me, Mitsy. I see whatever I see from here, but you’re right there. Are you saying nothing’s up, or that you just haven’t seen your daughter yet?”
“You’re making me nervous,” Mitsy says.
“Answer my question.”
“Okay, well, no, nothing’s up that I know of, and no, I haven’t seen her yet. Two no’s.”
After an uncomfortable pause, Pandora says, “Then why did you call?”
“You can’t pass a tractor on a narrow dirt road!” Mitsy screeches. “Do you know how dangerous that is?!”
“I have to, Mrs. M,” says Dane. “The dude is moving an inch an hour.”
“Country courtesy,” Mitsy hisses. “Farmer’s etiquette, Dane. Have some goddamn patience!”
“Mitsy?” says Pandora. “Hello? Why did you call me?”
“I don’t know,” Mitsy says. “I just…I hadn’t talked to you in a while, and if I’m truthful, yes, I suppose I have some separation anxiety.”
“Mitsy?” Pandora says. “Are you there? Hello? Mitsy?”
The phone goes dead.
“Damn!” says Mitsy. “The signal is terrible here!” She slams her phone on the center console behind the tissues. “What the hell!”
“Well, it is the country,” Dane says. “Fucking pigs and whatever. E-I-E-I-O.”
“You should watch your language, young man. Show some respect.”
He turns, narrowing his eyes, “But…”
Mitsy says, “We’re right up this hill, Dane… Hey, what’s your last name anyway?”
“Lazur,” he says. “It’s Czech. We’re Czech, Armenian and Sicilian. A real smorgasbord.”
“Smorgasbords are Swedish,” says Mitsy. “Oh my God, we’re here!” Her hand flies to her chest as she points up a steep dirt road. “Right there about half a mile up.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “It’s been so long since I’ve been home—a decade, maybe more. I can’t believe I’m here!”
“Home?” Dane says.
“This is where Hannah and I were born,” she says. “Where I learned to ride…” The words catch in her throat.
“Ride what?”
“Horses,” she says.
“Whoa. Can’t picture that, Mrs. M.”
He drives a few more yards, pulls the car over, shifts into park, and gets out.
“What are you doing?” says Mitsy. “We’re almost home. Get back in the car!”
“I’m not going. I’ll walk to town and get a bus or something.”
Mitsy casts about wildly, outraged. “What are you talking about? You drove all the way here! Less than a mile and we’re there!”
He nods. “Yeah, well. I’ve done some crazy shit in my life, believe me, but this takes the cake.”
She freezes; he means it. “I can’t go there without you, Dane,” she says.
“No offense, Mrs. M, but you have to. If I go I might freak Syd out for good. Small chance she’ll forgive me eventually, but not if I force it.”
“But how will I get to the top of the hill?”
“Drive?” he says, shrugging. “It’s your car. You must’ve driven it before.”
“Well, yes, but.”
“Sorry, Mrs. M. You were good enough company, I guess, not that I want to share another motel room with you or anything. But I have to find a way home.”
“If you just drop me at the farm, I can let you have the car,” she pleads. “Can’t you just drive me the last mile?” Even after coming all this way, she knows she can’t drive. Not yet. Maybe not ever. She looks down at her lap, at Hannah’s designer dark wash jeans. Everything else is a mess—she didn’t even get a shower this morning—no water!—but the jeans are still crisp and fitted. She’s ridiculously grateful for this pittance.
He turns, staring into the brown scrub that borders the dirt road. There’s a fluttering inside and a quail emerges, teetering across the road like a cartoon.
“Hey look at that!” he says, delighted. He furrows his thick eyebrows. “What the hell is it?”
“It’s a quail,” says Mitsy as pleasantly as she can. “There are quite a few of them around here.” Maybe he’ll relent, she thinks. If he likes quails. Oh please, relent!
A car pulls up behind them.
Mitsy leans over the console so she doesn’t raise her voice. “Get in,” she says with authority. “That car needs to pass.” Get in and drive me one more frigging mile!
Behind them, a man sticks his head out the car window. “Got some trouble?” he asks in a deep, familiar voice.
Mitsy puts her head down. Oh my God, she thinks, it’s Jonah. At least it sounds like Jonah. Oh my God, oh my God. What has she done, exposing herself like this?
Jonah gets out of the car. Or maybe it’s not Jonah. She turns quickly. No, it’s Jonah.
“Do you need a hand?” he says, leaning down. He studies her through the window. “Mitsy?”he says, perplexed. “Mitsy, is that you?”
She stares down at her quilted black boots, the long legs of her jeans stuffed haphazardly in the shafts. Even in these trendy pants she is one big fashion don’t.
He knocks on the window. “Can you open this?” he says, and waits until she’s lowered the window. He places his hands on the window frame. “I can’t believe you got here so fast. How did you know? Hannah said you weren’t answering the phone.” He checks his watch, frowning quizzically. “But how could you make it down here in three hours? Did you fly? Is this a rental?”
Mitsy finally turns toward him. “Know what?” she says.
“You mean…you don’t know? You didn’t talk to Hannah?”
She shakes her head, slowly but surely seizing with fear. What is he talking about?! She doesn’t want to know.
Jonah steps to his right, peering over the hood of the car at Dane. “You drove her here?” he says.
Dane nods.
“Well, is the um…is the car okay? Why are you standing in the middle of the road?”
“I just…I’m leaving from here,” he says. “Hitch
ing a ride to whatever wheels will get me back to Connecticut.” He nods at Jonah. “Not to be rude, sir, but who are you?”
“Sorry,” Jonah says. He steps to the right, leans over the hood and extends a hand. “I’m Syd’s uncle. Sort of.”
Dane accepts the gesture graciously. “Dane,” he says. “Friend of Syd’s.” He shrugs. “Sort of.”
Jonah looks back toward Mitsy. “Why don’t we all just go up to the house and talk?” He raises his chin at Dane. “You, too,” he says.
Dane shakes his head vehemently. “No, not me, sir. Syd’s not ready to see me yet. She hasn’t answered a single text. I’m heading home.”
Jonah shifts his weight from side to side. “Syd’s, uh…she’s not at the house right now.”
“Where is she?” demands Mitsy.
He waves toward the hill in the direction of the house. “How about I fill you in up there?” He nods at Dane. “You, too, buddy. Don’t worry; we’ll get you a ride home one way or the other.”
Jonah’s expression brokers no compromise. So imposing, Mitsy thinks. She never noticed this quality in him before. And it works because Dane obeys and slides reluctantly back into the car. Thank God! Her attachment to this adolescent is inexplicable.
“She better not be there,” Dane says. “I’m not kidding. She means a bunch to me and…”
“She’s not there,” Mitsy snaps. “Something’s wrong; can’t you tell? You seemed like such a smart young man at first.”
Dane shifts the gear into drive and accelerates, kicking up some dirt. Neither one speaks as they follow the winding dirt road uphill past acres of undulating pasture and white four-board fencing. “Where is she?” he finally says. “What do you think…”
“I don’t know,” she says, quivering. “I honestly don’t know.”
Still driving, he reaches over and grabs her hand, holds it on top of the tissue box on the center console, his eyes looking ahead at the road. “It’s ok, Mrs. M,” he says. “Whatever it is, it’ll be ok. Don’t give up. You gotta believe.”
Mitsy’s eyes well up. It’s been so long since anyone’s considered her feelings that she barely knows how to respond. Everyone’s just so damn busy telling her to buck up and get over herself. But how?!! How does one do that when one’s daughter is…
Dane leaves his hand right there, gripping hers. It gives her strength. “There’s the house,” she says, pointing to the right.
“Wow,” he says. “This place is just…holy shit! Some kind of Shangri-La!”
“It is, isn’t it?” Misty says. She looks at him pleadingly. “Please stay?” All at once tears stream down her face. “Please, Dane?” Her chest is racked with grief. “I beg you.”
Hannah
Hannah paces back and forth in the sterile black and white hall as they transfuse her niece in a nearby hospital room. Bulging bags of burgundy-red blood are emptied into the fragile veins of the magnificent but fragile Sydney Michaels. Hannah wants to know whose blood it is. Whose blood is worthy of those veins? For instance, did it come from a drunken slob who needed the cash? Or did it come from a church lady? How many infections was it tested for? There are probably plenty of infections they don’t even know about. Hideous new infections from sexually deviant perverts who tripped past the blood bank on their way to the liquor store. Where does it all end! What inventive new torture is God hiding up his omnipotent sleeve to spring on them next? If s/he’s even watching at all.
It’s all Hannah can do not to lose her mind. Is she crazy, or is it slowly leaking out, thought by crazy thought? That’s what it feels like. She places her hands on either side of her head to hold it in. But then again, why would she want to hold onto the toxic swill swimming around in her head right now? She paces. And paces! Pacing helps her collect her thoughts, to sort them out. To choose the worst ones possible to dwell on! The physical act of pacing somehow helps to remind her that she has to keep-it-together. That if she doesn’t, Syd will have no one at all. Hannah is it. Hannah is all that’s left.
A bespeckled, white-coated female oncologist from this morning’s team walks purposefully down the hall toward Hannah. A fresh-faced, twenty-something dark-haired man with a clipboard accompanies her. Hannah gets a bad vibe from just…you name it, their general attitude. She turns her head. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone. This is not her job! She’s here to give Syd a break from the dreary medical stuff. Where the hell are the child’s parents! She turns her back to the duo. Maybe they’re headed for another room.
“Mrs. Michaels?” says the doctor.
Hannah flips around. “No,” she says. “Not Mrs. Michaels. I’m Hannah Chandler, as I said earlier.”
The doctor checks her notes. “Sorry,” she says, then raises her chin, smiling efficiently. “Mrs. Chandler.” Her curly brown hair is clipped back in a sloppy chignon. She looks about fifty—either that or she’s been up all night. “I’m Dr. Blanca.”
Hannah nods noncommittally. I don’t care who you are! Don’t talk to me!
“I see that your name is on the list here,” says the doctor. She looks up. “I’m allowed to inform you of Sydney’s condition.”
“I’m her aunt,” Hannah says. She runs her thumbs back and forth against her index fingers. “I’m just here…to…to…”
“I understand this is difficult,” says the doctor. “But we have information, and the parents aren’t here. And you already signed for the transfusion, after all.”
“But that was an emergency,” says Hannah. “Right? So are you telling me there’s another emergency?”
“I’d rather not have this conversation in the hallway, Mrs. Chandler. I’ve called her parents and they haven’t returned my calls yet. It would be most useful for Sydney to have an informed advocate at her side.”
Hannah strokes her chin, her cheeks, her neck. She nods almost uncontrollably. “I see. I, uh…I…okay then…”
To Hannah’s left, a nurse sticks her head out the door of Syd’s room. “She’s awake now,” she says.
“She’s awake!” says Hannah. “Can I see her?”
“Of course,” says the nurse. She looks at the doctor. “Unless…”
The doctor nods. Her phone rings. She pulls it out of the hip pocket of her white coat and checks the number. “It’s a 203 area code,” she says.
“That’s Connecticut,” Hannah says almost jubilantly. “That’s probably her mother. Hooray! You can talk to her mother, and I can go inside to talk to my Goddaughter undisturbed.”
The doctor holds up her index finger, mouthing ‘hold on’ to Hannah, then says “Hello?” into the phone. Hannah keeps going. She’s halfway into Syd’s room when she hears the doctor say, “Oh, yes, Mr. Michaels, thank you for returning my call. This is Dr. Blanca.”
So, Aaron must be home, Hannah thinks. Finally! Thank God. How did she become mother and father to this child, anyway? She never signed up to become another parent to Syd. She signed up to give Syd a trap door, a way out. She takes a second to recover her composure before parting the curtain.
“Hey cookie,” she says. “How are you feeling?”
Syd has more color. Or, Hannah should say, she has some color. Only now that her cheeks are pink does Hannah realize how pasty white she’d become. But why me? she thinks. Why not the doctors at the clinic? Couldn’t they tell she was anemic?
Syd’s lids pop open. She reaches out with her left hand. “Aunt Hannah,” she says groggily. “Thank God you’re here.”
Hannah slides into the seat next to the bed and clutches Syd’s hand. “Of course I’m here, cookie. Where else would I be?” She kisses Syd’s white-knuckled fist.
“What happened?” Syd says. She points to the intravenous in her left arm. “Why was my blood count so low?”
“Well, that’s something we’ll have to discuss with the doctors. We have plenty of time for that.”
Syd frowns. “They’re not going to make me go back home, are they?” She shakes her head. “I don’t want to, Aunt Hann
ah. I want to stay on the farm. I can’t get well at home.” She stares pleadingly. “I can’t.”
Hannah pats her hand. “We’ll see.”
Syd grimaces, cocking her head to the left as if searching for something. “What was the question?” she says. “What did you ask me?”
“What?” says Hannah.
“The Anesthesia Game.” Syd turns her head toward Hannah pensively. “Did you ask me something?” Her eyes widen with panic. “I don’t remember it,” she says. “I’m trying, but I can’t remember.”
Hannah leans in. “No, cookie, I didn’t,” she lies. “I didn’t ask you anything; there wasn’t time. You just blacked-out and that was it.”
“Are you sure? Because if you did and I don’t remember, that’s a terrible sign. That means The Taker…”
Hannah leans up, bringing her face right over Syd’s and whispers, “Fuck. The. Fucking. Taker.”
Syd’s chest inflates with concern. “I know, but…”
“But nothing,” Hannah says firmly. “There wasn’t time to ask you anything. The Taker is lost somewhere in space, spinning in eternal orbit. You are not his concern.”
“I’m not?” She gathers a slight smile.
“No. You are emphatically not. Where’s my warrior girl, huh? Where did she go? Aren’t you the one with the dagger tattoo?”
“Yeah,” says Syd shyly.
“Right?” says Hannah. “And anyway, why would he waste his time on a vampire like you?” She points to the IV pole. “Look at all that bloody red blood!” Her eyes widen evilly. “You can’t kill a vampire no matter how hard you try. Everybody knows that. Even The Taker.”
Syd breaks into a grin. “It’s true,” she says. “I never thought of it that way.”
“Vampires live forever,” says Hannah confidently. She sits back in her chair and folds her arms. “And anyway, if I see The Taker I’ll personally ring his slimy neck.”
“Ha ha,” says Syd. “Good.”
Behind her, Hannah hears, “Mrs. Chandler? May I speak to you outside, please?”
Hannah squeezes Syd’s hand reassuringly, leans over and kisses her forehead gently. “Be right back, cookie.”
When she gets into the hall, Dr. Blanca corrals her into a side conference room with the young man and his clipboard. She closes the door and asks Hannah to take a seat on the couch. The young man has a nametag that reads “Ronald”. He extends his hand.
The Anesthesia Game Page 17
