The Hummingbird

by Stephen P. Kiernan

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, handing him the jug. “You and I have some planning to do. Preparation.”

  “Of what kind?”

  “Medical. I don’t want us to encounter any surprises. So we’ll be developing a plan for your treatment.”

  “What sort of a plan?”

  “That’s for us both to find out.”

  He interrupted his slurping on the straw. “You are being evasive.”

  “Not at all. I’m just being—­”

  “Evasive.”

  No question, the man was a prize. “We’re just done for the day, that’s all.”

  He set the water jug on his rolling table. “Thus have you instructed me to plan for some planning.”

  A terrier with a rag in his teeth. “None of this is urgent, Professor. And anyway, with Melissa here—­”

  “You will tell her nothing.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The Sword.” He wagged a finger as though he were scolding me. “Strictly between us. No one else. And definitely not that sports-­crazed girl. I hear her doing push-­ups when I’m trying to sleep.”

  “I doubt that.” I bent to arrange his pillows. And bless that curmudgeon, he leaned forward to make it easier. “But if you insist. Just us.”

  “I do. Especially in view of the fact that you haven’t told me whether you believe my book thus far or not.”

  I straightened. “Didn’t I?”

  “Nurse Birch.” He scowled at me as if I were a used-­car salesman, trying to sell him a jalopy.

  “Didn’t you say you needed to go to the bathroom?”

  “It passed. Now answer me.”

  “All right,” I said. “I admit it. I’m not sure. Parts seem true.”

  “Such as?”

  “The details. Size of the sub, the range of the folded-­up plane, that sort of thing. But I can’t sort out if you’re just piling on those facts because it will make the other stuff more believable.”

  Rubbing his face, the Professor said nothing.

  “Are you smiling at me, behind your hand there?”

  He yanked it down and scowled. “Nothing of the kind. I was merely appreciating your skepticism. You mistrust my rhetoric.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean. But the writing reminds me of some doctors.”

  “In what manner? And would you please close those blasted blinds? Before the sun incapacitates me permanently?”

  “Well, it’s like this. Sometimes a baby doesn’t start out right, won’t latch on, doesn’t nurse.” I leaned to the window, taking the blinds’ string in one hand. “The doctors perform all sorts of tests, and sometimes that works and they get the baby well. But there are cases when it doesn’t. The infant worsens, so they double the testing, seeking trend lines, hoping to bend the curves. But all the data can’t hide that they don’t really know what’s going on. And if the infant dies, which is one of the saddest things that happens in a hospital, the diagnosis on the chart will be ‘failure to thrive.’ As if it was the baby’s fault.”

  I lowered the blinds. The room felt smaller, but not bleak. More private, protected. “Anyway, that’s what your details do. They’re supposed to convince me, but they might be camouflaging the part that’s made up.”

  “Excellent syllogism, Nurse Birch. I can explain one thing, however, before you leave for the day—­why those details matter very much.”

  I placed the string along the headboard so the Professor could open the blinds later if he chose. “I’m listening.”

  “Because they pertain to your husband. They demonstrate that, in order to understand a warrior, first you must understand his weapons.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Whether the warrior is Ichiro Soga or your husband, regardless.” The Professor shrugged. “First you must understand his weapons.”

  Then, peering into the little basket where I’d collected his remotes, he selected one, pointed it at the television, and turned away from me.

  ONCE I CARED FOR AN ALCOHOLIC WOMAN with children in their early thirties, and in my view every person in that family needed a decade of counseling.

  Mona lived in a railroad-­style apartment, in a near-­shanty, beside a road with constant traffic, and every time I arrived, her yard was full of cars. Sons, daughters, their girlfriends and boyfriends, plus the occasional drinking buddy. She had the deep voice and deeper wrinkles of a lifelong smoker. Mona also had inoperable bone cancer in her sacrum, and the tumor was causing constant pain.

  With those situations, the options are lousy: sever the spinal cord, which causes paralysis for the patient’s remaining life, or crank up the morphine, which puts the patient so soundly asleep she never eats again and dies of malnourishment. But Mona’s enterprising doctor had devised an innovative treatment, using a local analgesic method originally designed for short-­term recovery from surgeries like hernia repairs and C-­sections. It was a sterile pouch, really, nothing more sophisticated than that, with a thin drip line inserted directly into the wound—­or in her case, the tumor site. As the medicine oh-­so-­slowly oozed through, it muted the nerves locally, and Mona remained awake and alert. This little trick had probably bought her three months of life, pain-­free.

  The problem was the drip line. It was an invitation to infection. Any moisture, even an innocent drop of sweat, was perilous. My job was to make a house call at the beginning and end of each shift to sterilize the line and refill the pouch.

  Medically, it was nothing. Ten minutes. Yet after four or five days I found myself dreading the stops at Mona’s house. In the evening, there were always ­people out on the porch, drinking, often straight from the bottle. They would stop talking the moment I closed my car door. Although the men didn’t bother to hide checking me out, no one greeted me, even if I said hello. Instead they made a cloud of cigarette smoke so thick I had to hold my breath as I passed through. I felt the heat of their stares and sometimes heard a muttered wisecrack and snickering after I had gone inside.

  Morning visits weren’t much better. There would be fresh trash on the lawn, cigarette butts in the sink, someone snoring on the couch under a threadbare blanket.

  It wasn’t the poverty. I have cared for plenty of ­people with no money. Some have been my favorite clients, in fact, because they showed appreciation and dignity despite severe material want—­and it was humbling. I remember watching a woman eat cereal from a chipped and dirty bowl, for instance, and arriving home that night feeling pretty meek about the breakfast dishes I’d left in the sink.

  And of course there was Ryan. On my first visit to his apartment, the man did not have a bed. Just blankets on the floor, a flattened pillow at one end. I arranged for the agency to provide a hospital bed and linens, then cut loose some cash so he could afford to heat his place to a reasonable temperature.

  Ryan promised to give me something in return, though I insisted that he shouldn’t. But who was I to know what a dying man’s necessities are? He felt compelled to show gratitude.

  Ryan is the man who carved me the hummingbird, which turned out to be a totem of my work, a permanent reminder that every patient is capable of enormous and unexpected gifts. My challenge is to remember that, and to see the person behind the problem.

  At Mona’s the problem was drink: hers, her children’s, their friends’. While I was inside swabbing her med-­line, I could hear the partiers through the screens. Their tone was bitter, caustic. One night the railing broke, and a man fell onto the lawn. It was the only time I ever heard laughter there. While he poured forth a recitation of filth to make a sailor blush, the rest of the crew roared and cackled. When he answered them by swearing with greater passion, their hilarity sounded like barking dogs.

  Some days were not so bad, though I couldn’t say why. They just went more smoothly, and I was less edgy. So I began k
eeping track: when was it easy, when was I uneasy. Eventually, I realized that my mood was established before I’d even gotten out of my car.

  That’s not unusual in medicine; the caregiver’s experience can often be a useful diagnostic tool. A psychologist who is taking a patient’s history and begins to feel depressed, for example, has received a clear indicator that the patient is depressed himself.

  At Mona’s house there was no obvious signal. It was something nuanced. I needed three full weeks to figure it out. One evening, when I was running a bit behind schedule, I noticed: There was a green Mustang on the front grass, its chrome back wheels jacked up but the rest of it in rusty condition. When that car was present, my mood was anxious. Yet I had no idea whose vehicle it was. How could I have subconsciously connected the car to the negative atmosphere at the house?

  Before I could solve that riddle, the answer presented itself. On that night, I was late, and I hurried into Mona’s room to check her line. Two men were sitting beside her bed. Her hair hung down into her face. The cigarette smoke was as thick as steam.

  “It’s a little close in here,” I said, opening the one window that worked. No question, I would arrive home smelling of smoke. No one replied.

  I turned to assess the situation. All three of them held large glasses of dark liquor. I asked Mona how her day was.

  “Lousy,” she slurred. “What else?”

  “Sorry,” I said, coming beside her bed. “But we can’t mix these things.”

  I took her glass away. She glared at me, trying to focus. Meanwhile I carried the glass into the kitchen and poured its contents down the sink.

  One of the men was at my elbow instantly, smelling of booze. He was much taller than me and stood too close. “What the hell you doing, little missy?”

  “Giving alcohol to a person on pain medicines is a really bad idea.”

  “Well I’m her fuckin’ son. And I say if she wants to hoist a few fuckin’ drinks, it ain’t gonna hurt nobody.”

  “Actually, it will. It will hurt your mom, perhaps seriously.”

  “Maybe you didn’t even fuckin’ notice, but she’s already in a world of hurt, Miss Priss.”

  “Miss Priss? Is that the best you can do?” I stepped past him to finish filling Mona’s pouch, but on the way I did something that I regret to this day. I laughed. One little snort, but it conveyed a long paragraph of contempt.

  Now a man like that has little enough to shore up his ego, only a jacked-­up car and a mouth full of bravado, and I had popped his tires. He glanced around to see who had heard. I looked too—­just us. Then I went about my business, lines and pouch, while he stood in the doorway smoldering. I left without another word between us.

  They fired me the following morning. I received the email from my boss before breakfast, so they must have called the agency mighty early.

  Timmy Clamber was next, and he lasted one day. Not exactly a gay-­friendly household, I’d say. Then heroic Grace Farnham stepped in, with her gospel voice and skillful diplomacy, and they kept her on. I felt relieved for the patient, the family, and myself.

  I can’t say that I forgot Mona, but she faded quickly because my next assignment was also a tough one. Allison was an elderly piano teacher, a devout Catholic, whose husband was a retired plumber and whose five grown sons either still lived in the house or were on the same block. She was in the final weeks of a valiant ovarian cancer fight. Allison had taken care of all of those men for so many years, she did not even know what her needs were, much less how to ask for them to be met.

  For me it was a month of mind reading, guessing at signals, and biting my tongue while the fellas stood around with their hands in their pockets. At the end I was proud that she died pain-­free, rosary in her fingers and a priest at her bedside in the final hour.

  When I spotted Grace Farnham in the office a few weeks later, I went straight to her desk. Perhaps not the most organized worker in the office, she was searching for something among the piles of papers. I stood there a moment, liking the way she smelled—­floral yet maternal, like a fourth-­grade teacher. When she glanced up, I said I was glad Mona had finished life in her care because it guaranteed a happy ending.

  “Lord, no,” Grace said, pausing in her search. “That case was not pretty, Deborah dear. One sad household.”

  “But why? She had that great drip device.”

  “Well, it seemed like she was drawing pain meds through the tube faster, but I just gave her more. You know I’m not sharp on titrating dosages like you are. So it took me a bit to figure it out. Then I ran water on the tube and sure enough there were pinholes. That oldest boy of hers was diverting.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “An addict, I guess. Or user, anyway. He was tapping her line to steal some injectable.” Grace rubbed her forehead. “Oh, I wish you had kept on with that one, Deborah. It wouldn’t have gone so badly.”

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “He messed up, of course, contaminated things, and gave his poor mama meningitis. As if her life weren’t difficult enough.” Grace shuffled the papers on her desk. “That Mona, she suffered hard.”

  Ouch. I had been on to that guy, I’d had his number. But I put my ego first and took the firing gladly. If I’d stayed, maybe I would have caught the diverting earlier. Maybe Mona would not have died in misery. And that is how one uncompassionate laugh can weigh a thousand pounds forever.

  THERE WAS NO GREEN MUSTANG parked in front of the house when I reached home that night. There must have been some similar signal though, some subtle but accurate indicator, because anxiety surged in me the moment I pulled into the driveway. I’d been improving at that, diagnosing Michael’s condition before setting foot in the house. Before I’d shut off the car that day, I could tell something was not right.

  The news on the radio didn’t help: a shooting at a mall in Ohio. After killing four ­people and wounding six, the gunman shot himself at the scene. A familiar story, sadly enough, and the randomness of its violence would make anyone nervous.

  But even after I’d shut the engine off, I felt a tension in the quiet, as if I were a little kid caught at something and was about to get yelled at.

  I climbed out of the car and peered around. There were no external indicators, no signs of trouble. Just Michael’s shoes beside the front door, his socks tucked inside. That wasn’t his routine, but the day was warm, and he’d walked home from work. So why would that put me on alert?

  I have no idea. Nor can I say why the strange rhythmic sound from inside caused my stomach to flutter. But something made me turn the handle gently and open the screen door slowly so that it would not squeak. Something made me stealthy as I entered my own house.

  Michael sat at the kitchen table, his back to me. My mouth went dry as I took it all in: Three racks of large brass bullets, polished to a yellowy shine, perhaps two hundred rounds per rack. His rifle, which we had agreed would always be kept locked in the hall cabinet because the big gun made me nervous, leaned against the counter. My husband wore camouflage pants, a tight white t-­shirt, and one army boot. That rhythmic sound was Michael going back and forth with a brush, buffing the other boot so that it shined.

  His neck was red with exertion, arm and back muscles flexed, head bent in concentration.

  Nobody knew the statistics on returning soldiers better than me: Four hundred thousand men and women with PTSD. Twenty-­two suicides a day. And here was my psychically wounded man gearing up as if he were about to invade the city of Portland. Of all the emotions I’d experienced since he came home, that was the first time I had known outright fear.

  “Sweetheart?”

  “Jesus,” he said, wheeling in his chair. “Why are you sneaking up on me?”

  “You didn’t hear my car?”

  “God almighty, Deb.” He held the brush against his chest a moment, then pointed
it at me. “Startling Michael Birch is not a good idea. Really not.” He shook his head. “Understatement of the year.”

  He bent back to his boot, buff buff buff.

  It felt like a hospice situation. The pressure, the heightened emotions, the vast difference in circumstances of ­people involved. And so I knew the rules for handling moments like that: Resist all urges to turn away, even though my insides were trembling. Find the courage to face directly into the wind.

  “Any special reason you’re suiting up today?”

  Buff, buff. “Had a call from Gene.”

  “Gene?”

  He paused, staring at the floor. “Jesus, Deb. Gene Cleaves? The guy who lost his leg in our IED attack?”

  “I’m sorry. I forgot his name for a second.”

  Michael went back to boot polishing.

  “How’s Gene doing these days?”

  “Finished PT and OT and now he wants to get his riflery chops back. Invited me down to the range next week.”

  “I see.”

  There was so much more I wanted to say. About lavishing affection on his gear when he could not spare one caress for me. About what shooting again might stir up in him. About how all of this was scaring me.

  Then I remembered what the Professor had said earlier that day: First you must understand his weapon.

  I crossed the kitchen and picked up the rifle. Heavier than I’d expected. Colder too. The gun seemed inert, just dull metal, but I knew it was capable of enormous things.

  Michael was watching me intently, boot brush suspended mid-­stroke. He rested his wrist on his knee. “What’s up, Deb?”

  I cradled the gun to my chest. Professor, I thought, I hope you are right.

  Then I squatted, looking my husband full in the face. “Isn’t it time you taught me how to shoot this thing?”

  ICHIRO SOGA FLEW TWO SORTIES. He managed two take-­offs, navigated two flights, and dropped four bombs.

  Obviously his mission did not achieve its intended goals. Not even the mighty 1942 U.S. Department of War could have suppressed the news of a massive conflagration in the forests of southern Oregon.