Claire Voyant

by Saralee Rosenberg

  Even more humiliating, when they asked Grams to find clothes for me, she ran for one of her cotton housedresses. The kind that had sucking candies in the pocket and carried the scent of eau de old lady. But the best part was finding myself in a pair of underpants so huge, two of my legs could have fit through one hole.

  I felt like Dorothy, fresh from Oz. Between my lovely octogenarian ensemble and the realization that a crowd had assembled around me, it was a wonder I didn’t pass out again.

  There stood Grams, Lillian (now in civilian attire), the EMS guys, a few assorted neighbors who wanted to know where all the furniture went, and those same annoying cops, who, upon learning of more trouble in 6F, returned to investigate.

  In my first seconds of consciousness, they all appeared filtered and blurry, as if the wrong lens had been popped on a camera body. I heard voices, but the sounds were muffled and unfamiliar. Slowly, the veil of ignorance was lifted, and tiny puzzle pieces snapped into place. It was morning in Florida. I knew that because my nose was stuffed and my eyes itched. I also had a serious migraine. But why was I lying on the floor? Oh yeah. Grams wasn’t into furniture anymore. And now I remembered that wasn’t the only kind of lying. My parents weren’t really my parents…I wasn’t really Claire Greene. I was an old woman with zero taste in clothes.

  “What the hell am I wearing?” My hoarse voice croaked.

  “She’s up!” Grams clapped. “She woke up.”

  “Get this thing off of me.” I tugged at the snaps.

  “What! It’s my best housedress…butterscotch candies in the pocket…your favorite.”

  “Maybe later.” I tried stretching the stiff cotton shift past my knees. “What happened?”

  “Oy, oy, oy, Claire.” Grams’ pale skin telegraphed her fright. “You fainted in the shower. Thank God you didn’t lock the door like when you were little…. You scared me half to death.”

  “Wait, wait, wait. Wasn’t it the other way around? You scared me after telling me—”

  “Oy. These crazy kids today.” She cut me off. “Running in the hot sun, starving themselves…”

  “I’m Enrique.” A paramedic placed a blood pressure cuff on my arm. “How are you feeling?”

  “A little dizzy. I have a headache. My throat is killing me.”

  “That’s all to be expected. You vomited when you fell…aspirated down the lungs….”

  I shivered. “Could I please have some juice, Grams?”

  “What kind? I got orange, tomato, prune—no, wait, the orange wasn’t on special last week—”

  “Anything but prune.” I studied Enrique’s eyes to see how concerned he looked.

  “Don’t worry, Claire. I got plenty of orange juice,” Lillian piped in. “And I’m right next door. Who doesn’t have orange juice? We’re in Florida, for God’s sake.”

  “We got a little apple juice left.” A small bald man raised his hand.

  “That’s not good for fainting, Herb,” his wife argued. “She needs something nice and strong to get her energy back.”

  “Like a martini,” I mumbled. “Make mine a double.”

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart.” She patted my hand. “I’ll get you a V-8. You’ll be up in no time.”

  Yeah. To shit my brains out.

  “Can you tell us what happened?” The paramedic asked. “Do you know what brought this on?”

  “I’ll tell you exactly,” Grams said. “She eats like a bird. Goes a whole day with nothing.”

  “Would you stop? I have a very good appetite.” I turned to him. “It’s just that I hadn’t gotten a chance to eat yet this morning, and then I learned some very shocking news—”

  “But she’s going to be okay, right, Doc?” Grams butted in.

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine, ma’am.” He chuckled at the reference to his presumed medical degree. “Claire, are you taking any medications, any anxiety pills, antidepressants—”

  “No, but soon I’ll be taking all of them.”

  “Are you experiencing any other symptoms? Nausea, blurred vision, extreme fatigue—”

  “All of the above, but so would you if you found out—”

  “She suffered severe emotional trauma this morning,” Lillian stated for the court.

  “Lillian, go get the juice,” Grams bellowed. “And mind your own goddamn business.”

  The paramedic rolled his eyes. “Is there any possibility you’re pregnant?”

  “No, a course not,” Grams answered. “What kind a question is that to ask a young girl? Do you see a wedding ring?”

  I had to snicker. Did she really think I was still a virgin? Good God. If anyone should know you didn’t need a marriage license to have a baby, it was her. I was living proof!

  “No, I’m not pregnant,” I said.

  “Well, that’s good, because you took quite a spill there…. We’d like to run you over to Aventura Hospital now. Have them examine you for any possible internal injuries, run some tests.”

  “No, that’s okay. Really. I’m fine. I just need to eat something. Have some juice…find my real clothes before someone thinks I’m well preserved for eighty….”

  “I don’t know, miss. You’ve got a pretty decent-sized contusion on the back of your head. And a fall like yours can lead to all kinds of problems. Spinal, neck, and back pain, blood clots, you name it. If I was you, I’d be seen, just as a precaution.”

  “Okay, but I’m not letting them admit me.”

  “That’s up to the neurology consult—”

  “Because I have a very important meeting this evening, and I can’t—”

  “What kinda meeting?” Grams asked. “Your parents are coming in.”

  Some parents! “I don’t care. I was invited to the Fabrikants’ for dinner, and I’m going.”

  “See! What did I tell you, Gert?” Lillian poked her shoulder. “Didn’t I say this would be nothing but trouble?”

  “It’s nothing but trouble every time you open your big trap. Claire, why schlep there for supper? I made that nice meatloaf you like.”

  Perfect! Serve it to my wonderful parents. “I’m not going over to eat, Grams. I’m going to…”

  She looked so panicky and bewildered, I didn’t have the heart to finish my sentence.

  “If we’re taking you over to Aventura, we really should be going.” Enrique packed his bag.

  “Give me a minute to find my clothes. I am not going out in public like this.”

  “What! It’s my best housedress!”

  “You want us to drive you, Gert?” Herb, the good neighbor, asked.

  “What for? I’ll ride with Claire in the ambulance. I don’t take up much space.”

  “But how will you and Claire get home, dear?” Mrs. Herb asked. “You don’t have a car.”

  “Go with them, Grams,” I said. “It’s a good idea.”

  “I don’t know. Now I’m thinkin’ maybe it’s better if I wait here for Leonard and Roberta. They might worry if we’re not home.”

  “So? Who gives a shit what they think?”

  “See?” Lillian shook her finger in Grams’ face. “What did I tell you? She’s starting with the attitude. From now on it’s gonna be nothin’ but aggravation.”

  I was not a frequent fainter. In fact, up until this day, the only other time I could recall blacking out was when I was twenty-three and about to marry Marc Melman, a stunning and brilliant law student at GW I’d met at a bar in D.C. one weekend while I was visiting a sorority sister.

  Still, I never expected that within months I would be wearing a three-carat rock that made my friends’ engagement rings look like those little starter stones from the mall. I was a lucky girl, all right. Everyone loved Marc. Envisioned our amazing life together. The beautiful family, the fancy sports cars, the amazing house in suburban Virginia once he made partner.

  In fact, everything was going swell until Marc convinced me that he and I weren’t really the “big wedding” types. I frankly hadn’t known that about myself
. But I was young then. And so intent on being the dutiful fiancée. Suddenly I didn’t care about the Carolina Herrera silk gown that according to Brides magazine would cost more than my first semester at Indiana. Our love transcended overpriced apparel.

  Only trouble then was I had this ever-so-slight question about my intended’s sexual preference. Especially one night when I realized Marc was having a far better time with the bartender than with me. That’s when the bells went off. And they weren’t wedding bells.

  I tossed my too-die-for diamond in his beer and joined the legion of “almost brides.” The wedding dropouts who never looked back and, in my case, who never dreamed of a big wedding again. Especially after finding out from the “almost best man” that my instincts were right on.

  So no, I wasn’t in the habit of fainting, I told Enrique in the ambulance. “Twice every thirty years is hardly a trend.”

  “Calm down.” He checked my pulse. “You took a big spill, but you’re gonna be fine.”

  “Then why is my neck in a collar?”

  “Because with head traumas, there is always the possibility of spinal cord injuries.”

  “But look.” I sat up. “See? I’m fine.”

  “Lie still, okay? After the fall you took, you’re lucky to be in one piece.”

  “Oh, I know. I’m feeling very lucky.”

  So lucky that I started praying to the Angel of Death. If he was in the neighborhood, and it wasn’t too much trouble, maybe he could stop by, as I had decided I was ready to return to the other side. No need for any theatrics. Didn’t have to see the white lights, or feel my body and soul separate. I would just check out quietly rather than have to suffer the rest of my days in pain.

  This sounds melodramatic, I know. And where was the gratitude that I didn’t have a truly life-threatening disease or injury? Trouble was, I couldn’t help myself. Once again I felt like Dorothy, after finding out how much Oz sucked.

  The Wicked Witch of the West was presumably my birth mother, now operating under an altered name and face. Lenny and Roberta were the cowardly lions for deceiving me. And the nice wizard, Abe Fabrikant, was about to be buried six feet under. So if I couldn’t be back in Kansas with Toto, couldn’t I just click my ruby slippers and be DOA at Aventura Hospital?

  “Feeling sorry for yourself?” An old man examined my skin condition and respiration.

  “Maybe,” I said, trying to place his soft, translucent face.

  “Sounds to me like self-pity.”

  “Really? And what makes you the expert?”

  “I’m quite familiar with the expressions people make when they’re feeling troubled.”

  “You’re confusing it with pain. I have a major headache. What happened to Enrique?”

  “I’m helping him out for a little while,” he answered in a deep, radio-announcer voice.

  “Who are you? Do I know you?” Where had I seen those broad jowls and twinkly blue eyes?

  “We met briefly,” he sighed. “I see that you’re wondering what you did to deserve all this.”

  “That’s right. I’m feeling a little sorry for myself. But how great would you feel after finding out that everything you thought was true and good in your life was just one huge cover-up? A lie.”

  “Even the truth is never what it seems. And you were not lied to.”

  “How do you know?” I blinked really hard, unsure of to whom or to what I was talking.

  “I know this: It’s too soon to be the judge and the jury. Take your time before rendering a verdict.”

  I shivered as I reached over to touch the man’s white, silky hair. “Mr. Fabrikant?”

  “No, it’s Enrique.” He gently placed my arm by my side. “Do you know where you are?”

  “I think so. Yes…no. Not sure….”

  I suddenly felt my eyes roll behind my head and my skin turn clammy.

  “Aw, crap.” Enrique yelled up to the driver, “She’s going into shock.” He grabbed the oxygen mask from the wall panel and placed the cup over my nose and mouth. “What the hell just happened to her? It’s like she was fine, and then she got spooked by something.”

  If ever there was an understatement!

  Chapter 13

  “WAIT, WAIT, WAIT.” I SAT UP IN BED TO ARGUE AT EYE LEVEL WITH THE ER nurse. “You just told me my vital signs are back to normal. Blood pressure is good. Nothing fishy in my urine…no more hallucinations…why can’t I leave?”

  “Because I’m recommending that you be seen by Dr. Hanley. She’s an excellent neurologist on staff. She’ll probably order a head CT scan.”

  “Sounds fun…but it will have to wait until tomorrow. No, wait. I have a funeral. How’s Thursday? Is she here on Thursdays?”

  “Miss Greene, please. I understand that you want to go home, believe me. No one wants to spend the day in an emergency room. But now that you’re here, you really should be throughly examined. We’re very concerned about—”

  “Yes, yes, yes. I know. Internal injuries. But I’m fine. I’m not even dizzy anymore.”

  “You can’t wait another ten minutes to see Dr. Hanley? She’s on her way down from surgery.”

  “I have no insurance.” That will scare her!

  “Don’t worry. Your parents are in the waiting room. They said they’d take care of everything.”

  “My parents are here? Damn!”

  “They seem very concerned.”

  “Of course. That’s their specialty! Acting concerned…. Look, I know you’re just doing your job, and I respect that. But there is someplace I really, really have to be in a little while.”

  “What time?” The nurse checked her watch.

  Lovely! This was going to be like bear-wrestling, minus the beer. “I’m getting picked up around five-thirty. But you know the drill. First I have to shower, get dressed, do my makeup, my hair…”

  “And this date is more important than your safety and well-being?”

  Now I get it. You used to teach sixth-grade health. “It’s not a date. It’s a meeting. And yes, as a matter of fact, it’s very important to me on both a personal and a professional level. See how smart I sound? How brain-impaired could I be?”

  “Okay,” she sighed. “You win. I’ll sign your discharge papers, but you have to promise to call Dr. Hanley’s office first thing tomorrow to set up an appointment.” She scribbled a number on a pad. “And have these two prescriptions filled right away.” She tore two more sheets off the pad. “And call us immediately if you experience any symptoms. Fever, nausea, vomiting, dizziness, dry mouth, fatigue, blurred vision…I’m giving you my private number here.” She wrote it down on the same paper. “So don’t give me any BS about not being able to get through the switchboard.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” I saluted. “Thank you so much, Nurse. I really appreciate your support.”

  “And go easy on your parents.” She patted my arm. “They seem genuinely concerned.”

  “Absolutely…. Is there like a back-door exit, or some other way out of here?”

  “Not unless you’re being rolled out on a gurney with a tag around your toe.”

  Yes, I’m an actress. And a damn good one. I’m versatile, quick on my feet, and if I do say so, very intuitive. I “get” the subtle nuances the writer intended. But no matter how many times I’d read Uta Hagen’s A Challenge for the Actor, no matter how many actors’ studios I’d attended, I didn’t think I could walk out there and maintain the kind of subversive cool needed to greet my parents and not unleash a torrent of angry words.

  For at that moment I felt so numb and disconnected, I was sure this unscripted, unrehearsed scene could easily turn into a final curtain. And if I deserved anything, it was a chance to have more than twenty coherent seconds to absorb all that had happened to me.

  One day I was humming along as Claire Greene, actress/failure, and next thing I knew, this macabre chain of events completely knocked me off my not-shapely-enough-to-be-in-a-movie ass, and I was suddenly Alice in Disasterland. Som
ehow I had slid down the wrong hole, because I recognized nothing and no one. This was NOT MY LIFE.

  My life was in L.A., and I wanted to be back there. Speed dating in Westwood. Shopping for booby dresses on Melrose with Sydney. Having a romantic dinner in one of those huge hideaway booths at the Bungalow Club. Or, the best indulgence, splurging on a $350 haircut at José Eber, just ’cause.

  That’s where I belonged. Not in some emergency room in Miami. And yet, that’s where I was. Praying that I survived the ordeals to come after walking out of the ER. Almost immediately I heard the sound of my mother’s voice. That whiny, high-pitched tone that always signaled some level of disapproval.

  I took a deep breath. Claire, I told myself, it’s too soon to fold. You are great Kate Hepburn in The Philadelphia Story. Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca. Penny Nichol in Don’t Do as I Do. On second thought, scratch that.

  “Claire. We’re over here.” My mother waved as if I were a sailor coming ashore after years at sea. “Don’t move. We’ll come to you.”

  “Hi.” I stiffened as the Greene/Moss family trio hugged me.

  “Oh my God, Claire. You look terrible,” she gasped. “Pale as a ghost.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What did they tell you?” my father, Mr. Cut-to-the-Chase, asked. “Are you going to be okay? Do you need any surgery? Physical therapy?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Well, thank God for that.”

  “I just have to call this neurologist in a few days.”

  “Oy, here we go with the specialists,” my mother groaned. “First they make you crazy with getting the referrals, then they tell you there’s no co-pay, but a month later they send a bill for five dollars…. Let’s just make sure this doctor is on our plan.”

  “Yeah,” my father said. “And what about the billing department? Do we need to stop in before you leave?”

  “No, Dad. That’s why they call it billing. Because they bill you.”

  “Okay, good, then.” My mother clapped. “How about we all go out for a nice dinner?”

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  “Almost three,” my father said. “Too early for dinner.”