*
John seemed disappointed when it was time to be released. He was concerned that he wasn’t well enough, but Dr. Sheffield insisted that there was no need to stay at the hospital any longer. The same paramedics, like our regular chauffeurs, took us both home again. There was a comfort in the familiarity of the routine. We were jostled by the stiff suspension of the ambulance, and John smiled at me wordlessly as I held his hand the whole way home like always.
“You’re such an angel, Suze. My dream come true.”
The calamity was over, and we were back to the coziness of our dingy house and soiled sheets. The two men carried John back up the creaking stairs and deposited him on the bed. They were like our bellboys. I felt like I should start tipping them. They closed the door on their way out, and I was sealed back into my life with John.
“Suze?”
“Coming!”
*
Within a few weeks, John had improved considerably. He was no longer confined to the bedroom and now ate with me downstairs. The morning was bright and muggy, and he sat at the table waiting for his cereal. His hands were folded in front of him. Old cartoons played on the kitchen TV set. As he laughed, I glanced at his eyes. They were clear and bright. His voice was strong. I had not seen him this healthy in years. Maybe it was progressive liver failure that had been bothering him all along, and Dr. Sheffield had finally found the answer to John’s medical enigmas. I was afraid to hope for too much; I couldn’t bear to be disappointed again, but I had to believe that miracles were possible.
“John, I can’t stay home with you anymore. Not one more day.” I said.
“Have you spoken to your boss?” he asked.
“I’m just going to go in,” I said.
“Yes, you must go,” he said. “I’ll be perfectly fine.”
I was struck by the fact that he didn’t object to me going to work. I believed it was added evidence that he was entering a new level of wellness. I was much more comfortable leaving him this time. Since there had been no surgery involved, there was no wound care or immobilization required. He was free of any casts or braces and could move around the house freely. Then I remembered my row with the landlord.
“Mrs. Arab said she saw you walking around out back,” I said. “It was shortly after your neck surgery. Did you happen to go outside?”
“What?” John turned his boyish face to me.
“I told her she was wrong, but she insisted it was you.”
His smile faltered; his brows knit together ever so slightly. It was just a flicker of expression, but his deceit was there, along with a slight catch in his breath. Then the charming smile returned. “It couldn’t have been me, sweetie. You know I rarely leave the bedroom, much less the house.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. This time I got him. I caught him in a lie.
He looked down as he fingered his napkin. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I’m sure if I, myself, walk outside.”
“That day you finished the Demerol. The day I came home from work and you were covered in new bruises …”
“No,” he cut me off. “Impossible.”
“You were overly intoxicated, John. You know better than to go outside alone. You just broke your neck on the stairs. You could easily fall after injecting so much Demerol.”
“It wasn’t that much,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“I just can’t believe how careless you were! If you get hurt, who’s the one who has to take care of you? It’s selfish. Absolutely selfish.”
“You don’t have to yell at me,” he said.
“I’m not yelling. I’m telling you how I feel. When you don’t take care of yourself, it affects me. Don’t you understand?”
“Okay. All right. I did it. I went outside,” he said. “I admit it. Will you stop it now?”
“I just feel like sometimes you don’t think of me at all,” I said.
His face softened, and he took my hand. “My angel,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“What were you thinking?” I asked.
He looked toward me with a wistful smile. His eyes were glassy with emotion. “I just hadn’t seen the sky in so long,” he said. “I just wanted to see the sky, Suze.”
I could hardly be angry with him anymore. I stood beside him, wrapped my arms around his shoulders, and kissed the top of his soft, balding head. He leaned into me and sighed.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Just don’t do it again.”
I went upstairs to get ready for work while he ate his breakfast. By the time I reached the bedroom, guilt was setting in. I shouldn’t have yelled at him, but John’s wellbeing was tied to mine, and he had to understand that. I had to establish some boundaries. I grabbed my purse and met him in the kitchen. He stood up and walked me to the door.
“Be careful,” I said. “I mean it.”
“I will.” He winked. I thought I detected something devious in his manner, but then his sweet expression returned and he kissed me good-bye. He almost seemed like a normal husband, and I had a taste of what our lives could be if he was finally cured.
*
The dawn warmth signaled the cold front was over. I turned on the radio, singing along with horrible pop songs to drown out the grinding noise of my car’s engine. I felt weightless and free because there was hope. I finally stood up for myself with John. I thought of how he walked me to the door. And he had not asked me for more Demerol. This meant I could go to work without any ulterior motives.
I walked into Dr. K’s office. A girl was at the desk, one I had never seen before. She must have been from the temp agency and was alarmed when I pushed the partition open and breezed into the back office. “Miss. Excuse me, Miss.” She tried to stop me.
I removed my coat. “It’s okay. I work here.”
“You must be Susan,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “Where is Dr. K?”
“Dr. Korn?”
I flinched inwardly as her mouth formed the word.
“Yes,” I said.
“In room three, with Mrs. Johnston,” she said.
“Okay, I’m going back to check the file room. Let him know I’m here.”
She gave me a skeptical glance and sat back in her chair. I went back to the break room to put my lunch in the refrigerator before beginning my shift. Dawn was there, dumping artificial creamer from a large canister into her coffee. “What was it this time?” she asked.
“Organ failure,” I said.
“Goodness, is he okay?”
“He’s doing really well. I think he’ll be okay now.”
“He’s never okay, that boy,” she said.
“This time is different,” I said.
“I don’t know how you do it.” She shook her head. “And you better go talk to Dr. K. Word around here is that you lost your job.”
I don’t know why I was shocked. He had every right to fire me, but it still hurt me, like the only sane thing I could hold onto in my life was being unfairly taken away. I was a good person. I worked hard. I took care of my husband. I had good intentions. How could I be fired?
“Sorry, babe,” Dawn said. She left the room, and I sat at the small table trying to digest the information. Did Dr. K find out the Demerol was missing? Would he press charges? I had a sudden urge to flee, to run away and keep going, over the terrain, toward the oceans, until I fell down dead.
Dr. K walked in next. He poured himself a cup of coffee and turned around and leaned on the counter. “Dawn told you?”
“Yep,” I said.
“I had to replace you. I’m sorry, Susan, but I need a receptionist. My office can’t revolve around your husband’s health issues.”
“I know,” I said, “I know I shouldn’t have left the office like that, but he almost died.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” he said. “We were all praying for you here, and we’re so happy for his recovery.”
“I think he might be cured.” I said. “You should
see him. He’s out of bed and everything.”
“It’s too late, Susan. I’m sorry. It’s not fair to the other girls. Take your time getting your things. You’ll get two week’s severance.”
“That’s very kind of you,” I said.
“You can start fresh somewhere else,” he said. “Let’s just hope John’s health cooperates.”
I nodded and got up from my chair. I was weak and unsteady and thought I would burst into tears. It was too much. Just when things were finally beginning to look up, I was pummeled down again. I wondered when my punishment would end.
I blundered around up front for my things as my replacement tried to do my work. I put all my papers and personal items into a file box and said quiet good-byes to the rest of the staff. They gave me awkward hugs and tried to pretend they weren’t relieved that I would no longer be a drag on the office. My car began sputtering and smoking as I backed out of my parking spot in one final humiliation for my exit.
*
I sank into a haze of hopelessness. I didn’t have the will to try to think of solutions. I didn’t even have the faith to pray. I was so absorbed in my worries; I didn’t notice the temperature gauge in the dashboard until I was a block from the house. Peter was right. The car needed coolant, but he probably didn’t feel inclined to put it in after I took his key away. The engine was overheating. I could smell the hot metal and the old rubber burning.
I pulled over on the side of the road and shut the car off. Vapor shot out from the sides of the hood. I had no idea how to deal with a broken-down car, and my brain didn’t have the capacity to cope with one more ounce of stress. I locked up the doors, leaving my box of office junk inside. I walked back to the estate. The balmy sun was now oppressive, shining over my brow and making my head ache. A light film of sweat formed on my body, and my scrubs stuck to my thighs.
The mother house looked even more enormous when approached by foot. I noticed the fine details, the meticulous craftsmanship, the adamant wealth of it bearing down on me. I entered the property. All was quiet, muffled by the humid air, except the crunching of my feet over the gravel. Not even Peter was around, which was a relief. I didn’t want to face him and tell him I blew up the car. Getting fired was demoralizing enough.
I heard loud music coming from our house. Zing! Went the Strings of My Heart.
I unlocked the door and stepped in. Once inside I could hear the imperfections in the record as the needle scraped over the grooves. It was as if the scratchy sound was rubbing inside me–like sandpaper on my nerves—but I wasn’t about to navigate the towers of junk to turn the volume down.
I untied my coat from my waist, and tented my shirt and pants away from my body to let some cool air in. I thought I heard John cackle. Then there was another burst of laughter.
“John?” I called, but I could barely hear myself over the blasting throat of Judy Garland. I grabbed a glass and filled it with tap water, gulping it down before going upstairs.
Midway up, I heard John erupt into giggles like he was being tickled. I never heard him laugh like that. He sounded like a madman.
The door was cracked open. I peeked through and saw him in his yellowed and worn cotton undershirt and boxers. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched over his arm, looking at it through what little murky light came in from the window. The first thing I noticed were the bruises. Purple blotches the color of grape jam covered his calves. His arm was tied tightly with a rubber tourniquet. Then I saw a syringe in his hand. He tapped his inner elbow. “Come on, come on,” he said to his vein through gritted teeth. “Got it!” he announced, and he laughed fiendishly as he pulled back the plunger.
The Demerol.
“John!” I yelled. “Don’t do it!”
He jumped up, and the syringe bounced onto the floor. “I, I …” he breathed. His deranged face became tightened in confusion. His large, expressive eyes were wide with surprise. “Sweetie, what are you doing home?”
“What on earth were you doing, John!”
He was pale, anemic; a light sweat glistened on his cheeks and forehead. “Nothing,” he said.
“Is that it?” I asked. “The big shot?”
He was at a loss for words, and then his features scrunched up into a pouty face. “I was in pain, sweetie.” He walked toward me slowly. “I needed some medicine.”
“What medicine?” I said. “I hid the vial.” I noticed a foul odor in the room. Was it him?
“I know you hid the vial,” he said with a sudden tone of menace. “You hid it very well.”
I glanced around the area where he sat. I moved toward where the syringe was lying on the carpet. John tried to block me with his battered body, but I ducked under him before he could stop me. I picked up the syringe and examined its contents. It was full of a cloudy beige liquid. It wasn’t Demerol. Demerol was clear.
“John? What were you doing?” I asked again. Something was wrong—very wrong. The cackling. The music. The smell.
“I just needed a shot, Suze.”
“Yeah, but what the hell is it?” I shook the syringe and held it up to the light. Tiny chunks of debris floated in it, and I watched the flakes swirl inside. Then I glanced at the table. There was the curdled milk from weeks ago. It must have been hidden behind something, but now there it was. The fuzzy layer on top was covered in blue and green mold. The liquid beneath was beige with a pinkish hue. The crust had been disturbed. It was broken, and the smell had diffused into the room, the stench of rotten cabbage and vomit. The liquid was the same color as that in the syringe. I looked at the glass, then the syringe, then John.
“John?” I asked. The syringe trembled between my fingertips.
“Oh,” he said. “Don’t be mad.”
“What is it?” A nameless panic rose within me.
He shrugged his shoulders and looked at the floor like a scolded boy. The mad show tunes echoed from downstairs, disorienting me.
“What’s in the syringe?!” I shrieked.
John slumped his shoulder, and shrugged them. “I was feeling better. So I …”
I took a step toward him and kicked something hard and cold. I looked down at my shoe. Lying in front of it was the hammer. My eyes moved over John’s purple calves and slowly made their way up to his face. There was no longer a scolded boy there, but a man.
Fear stung my nerves. They instantly fizzled with adrenaline. I felt like I was trapped in the room with a stranger. I wanted to run, to run away from my husband, but he was blocking the door. Then he laughed. Like it was all a practical joke he had set up for me. He laughed and laughed until tears came from his eyes.
“John?”
He raised his hand at me and held his belly in an effort to calm himself. The hand was purple from the tourniquet still pinching the skin around his upper arm. He breathed, giggled, and then breathed again. “Ah, ah. Okay. I’m done now.”
I stayed absolutely still, slightly hunched over with my arms out, like I was balancing on a tightrope. Some instinct was telling me not to make any sudden movements. I don’t think I could’ve moved if I wanted to. I was frozen with horror.
John looked at my face and suffered another bout of hysterical laughter. He recovered again, his little red mouth twitching to fight his mirth, and then he grinned madly at me, endearingly. “Oh, Suze. You’re too funny.”
The record ended, and the house was silent. It was then that I heard my own breathing and felt the throbbing of my heartbeat in my temples. One word flashed in my mind.
Impostor.
Pouty John. Sweet John. Brave John. All imposters, fakes. This monster was my real husband. The man with pelagic eyes. The one that hid from me in that deep blue-green with a heartbeat so strong it would plow me over.
My voice struggled to form in my throat. “You’re doing it,” I said.
“Doing what?” he laughed. His eyes wide and manic, his arms crossed in anticipation. “Go ahead. Tell me.”
“You’re hurting yourself.”
“The hammer,” I said.
“Yes. Yes.”
“What else?” I asked.
“Keep guessing …”
“The stairs?”
“Mmm-hmm. Yep.”
I tried to scan all the illnesses, accidents, surgeries in my memory. It was not possible, not his last scare, convulsing on the bathroom floor in a puddle of green bile. I remembered the sweet smell. “No, no, no,” I repeated.
“No, what?” he asked.
“You didn’t drink it. The antifreeze.
He separated his palms, his face in mock surprise. Then he clapped them together again. “Smart girl! Yes, that was a rough one, but I was bored. So many surgeries and broken bones. It was getting routine. I admit it was a little scary. I didn’t mean to go unconscious. I drank a tad too much.”
“Trying to kill yourself?”
“Good god, no,” he said. “If I wanted to die, I would’ve succeeded a long time ago.”
“What about the big shot?” I asked.
“All that talk of suicide was just for fun.”
“For fun?”
“To see how you would react. Pure improv.” He shrugged. “It just sort of happened after I got all loopy that night. You were so beautiful when you were crying over me. I simply had to run with it.”
I couldn’t process what he was saying and what it meant. My thoughts lay like a black clump of hair in a clogged drainpipe. I stared at him, trying to glean clues from his body, his expression. All I saw was a human being shivering with bliss.
“You’re an addict,” I said. “You do it for the drugs.”
“Oh, I love the drugs,” he said. “That’s part of it now. I’ve become spoiled to having them. Addicted, actually. It’s quite raging. But I did for something higher. Something glorious.”
SICK: Psychological Thriller Series Novella 1 Page 6
