“Very interesting,” she said.
THE VIEW FROM THE FIFTH FLOOR
With Arlene in the hospital, Emily’s days assumed a new shape. In the mornings she still woke at dawn and read the Post-Gazette with her tea and toast so she would know what was going on in the world, but now instead of folding the comics and working on the crossword while QED played their Handel and the blue jays and nuthatches skirmished at the feeder, she rinsed her cup and saucer and gathered her things and drove the Taurus to Bloomfield to be with Arlene.
If she wanted, she could stop at the Giant Eagle on the way for some cranberry muffins, or the Rite Aid for Arlene’s quince hand lotion. She could drop her books off at the library instead of waiting to make a special trip. The possibilities were limitless. She still wished the car were smaller, especially at the narrow entrance of the visitors’ lot, where she had to undo her belt and open her door to press the button and pluck the ticket so the gate rose, and parking was always a precarious exercise, but she was careful and didn’t let the few tight spots intimidate her.
The visitors’ lot, apparently by design, was the least convenient of the many parking fields, so far from the rear of the hospital that Emily counted the walk as exercise, something she didn’t get enough of at home. In bad weather it could be challenging. The wind came blasting across the flat, open space, snatching at her umbrella and tangling her hair, pulling tears from her eyes. All she could do was duck her head and keep moving. She was grateful when the doors automatically parted for her, relieved to finally be inside where it was warm.
She was among a small group of regulars who haunted the lobby and the cafeteria until the official beginning of visiting hours. Most were like her, solitary older women, though there was one tall gentleman who carried a plaid thermos along with his folded Post-Gazette, as if he were going off to work. She nodded to them in the halls or on the elevator, and though they never exchanged names or stories, they shared a muted camaraderie. She hadn’t noticed the phenomenon when Henry was sick, or Louise, possibly because she was so caught up in their suffering and her own terror that she couldn’t acknowledge anyone else’s. Looking back, she was probably in shock. Now it was good to know she wasn’t alone, and she sought out their faces, giving them, if only briefly, her most serious, reassuring smile.
Upstairs, she knew the nurses, and Arlene’s roommate Thalia and her friend Jean, and the orderlies who delivered their meals. At home, Emily frequently went for whole days without speaking to another person, at most talking to herself or Rufus. Here there was a constant stream of people recapping last night’s TV shows, or helping them solve the crossword, or discussing which new movies looked good, or sizing up the Steelers’ opponent this Sunday. None of it meant anything to Emily, but just the easy give-and-take excited her, the way driving made her feel surprisingly alive, part of something larger again.
The halls were constantly busy. Like a ship, the hospital operated by its own rigid clockwork, which meant there was always something to look forward to. Morning meds, the coffee cart, vital signs—every interruption was precisely scheduled, checked against a chart.
Lunch arrived in time for the noon news. Like the staff, Emily now disdained the cafeteria, slipping around the corner to a sandwich place that made its own soups. Their sandwiches were so big that she and Arlene could share one. Sometimes she had to wrap what was left of her half in a napkin and take it home rather than let it go to waste.
After lunch, they watched Arlene’s soap operas, or Arlene watched while Emily read beside her, from time to time looking up from her book and falling into the scene on-screen until she realized it had hijacked her attention. The effect wasn’t unpleasant, just confusing, as the two stories blended until neither made sense. Arlene, fully engaged, talked back to the actors. “Don’t do it,” she said. “She’s lying.” It reminded Emily of Henry holding conversations with his baseball games, instructing the Pirates’ manager to put on a bunt or change pitchers. She’d never been a vocal fan, content to sit back and watch without comment, but now, for the sheer fun of it, she seconded Arlene, or threw in her own two cents, though she was often wrong, not knowing the whole convoluted backstory.
“I don’t like him.”
“Who?”
“Him, with the mustache.”
“He’s one of the good guys.”
“Are you sure? I don’t like the way he looks.”
“He used to be a bad guy, but he’s changed.”
“So he could still be a bad guy underneath.”
“No. Now shush. I want to hear this.”
All My Children, The Guiding Light, One Life to Live. The people all seemed the same to Emily, artfully coiffed and dentally blessed, an entirely different species from the ones on the grotesque talk shows that followed.
Through the window, clouds settled over the bridge and Herron Hill beyond, over the whole city. Cars were driving with their lights on, their wipers working. It was that gray time of day just before the school buses rolled when Emily most keenly felt her own inertia, her life no longer an urgent or necessary business. At home she would be sitting in Henry’s chair with her feet up, reading her book and listening to the stereo on low, and feel sleep overtake her. She might make herself a cup of tea and nibble a cookie for some energy, or, giving in to the dreariness, switch off the music and move upstairs. Rufus anticipated her, nestling into his bed by the fireplace before she slipped off her shoes and got under the covers. It was warmer upstairs, and the reading lamp on the wall behind her shed a cozy yellow glow over the pages. Rufus soughed. The radio on her night table was tuned to QED as well, so that as she inevitably drifted off, Corelli or Telemann galloped melodically alongside her, which made her return to the world only more confusing, waking up to the blather of the news, the windows gone dark.
Now she used the dregs of her afternoons to fit in her outstanding errands. She made sure Arlene had everything she needed, then bade her and Thalia and Jean and the girls at the nurses’ station goodbye and braved the gusty walk to the car, already plotting her stops. Arlene was low on fish food, so she had to detour through Squirrel Hill. She was still unclear on their names, but she’d come to enjoy watching them dart and swoop to catch the flakes before they hit bottom. She didn’t linger in the apartment, though occasionally, charged by Arlene to retrieve something, she found herself leafing through the scrapbooks Arlene had amassed to follow her students’ progress. She’d taught at the same city school for thirty years, through dire and violent changes, the neighborhood deteriorating, growing more and more dangerous. Twice she’d been attacked, yet she never considered quitting or asking for a transfer. Like Henry, she had a superhuman patience and an unwavering dedication to her profession that Emily envied more than understood. Along with her class pictures, among the browning clippings celebrating graduations and weddings, service promotions and births, were obituaries, decades old now, of boys still in their teens. These were her children, yet Emily knew nothing of them, and the discovery lent Arlene—whose life, with its lack of attachments, had seemed so simple—an air of mystery.
By the time she locked up the apartment, the day was almost over. Now it was a race to make it to the Giant Eagle or the Rite Aid and back home before dusk blinded her. Traffic was heavier, and sometimes rather than battle it, she put off the trip till the next day, with the result that, as the week progressed, she always had somewhere to go.
Rufus was justifiably unhappy with her new schedule, though that was no excuse for pulling her used tissues out of the trash and shredding them all over the bath mat. She scolded him, then after dinner, to make up for her absence, took him for a walk around the block. It was chilly and damp, and the weak streetlights embellished their breath. Generally she didn’t go outside at night, and as they trod the darkness cast by the Coles’ hedges, she felt adventurous and daring, as if they were trespassing.
With all the walking and running around and just the effort of being out in public, she was fr
azzled, and caught herself yawning in front of the TV. When Jeopardy ended, she called Arlene to see if she needed anything for tomorrow, put Rufus out one last time, then went upstairs and turned on her electric blanket to preheat the bed.
She undressed and put on her robe and settled in to read a bit, surprised by how few pages she’d gotten through at the hospital. QED’s evening music was too lush, big noisy concert recordings of warhorses she could happily live the rest of her life without hearing again, when a simple prelude and fugue by Buxtehude or one of Purcell’s anthems would have been perfect, yet she kept it on, softly, each cough from the audience recalling the many performances she and Henry had endured at Heinz Hall as longtime subscribers, listening to the symphony meander through the same schmaltzy Schumann and Brahms and Berlioz.
Every night she tried to read, but her mouth tasted of toothpaste and her mind was restless, snagging on all the chores and errands she hadn’t gotten done. She needed to buy tea bags, she had to pay the gas bill, she’d wanted to air out the car and spray the seats with Febreze—and knowing she’d forget if she didn’t write them down, she opened the drawer of her night table and found her pen and pad and made a list so in the morning she’d have a jump on the day ahead.
The hope was that Arlene would be discharged by Friday at the latest. When the doctor said they wanted to monitor her over the weekend, Arlene was upset.
“I just want to sleep in my own bed,” she said tearily.
“It’s only two more days,” Emily said, patting her hand, but she understood. Of all people, she knew how easily one’s world could be taken away.
CLOSE TO NORMAL
They brought Arlene down in a wheelchair, over her flimsy protests. It didn’t mean anything, it was just hospital policy, a hedge against lawsuits. Emily swung the car around and got out to help, but Arlene was already up and headed for her, skirting the hood. With her scarf and Jackie O glasses, Arlene looked like a faded star trying to sneak away incognito. The doctor had chosen to cover her gash with an eye-catching white bandage that hinted at brain surgery.
“I can drive,” she said.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Emily said, blocking her progress. “You need to rest.”
“I’m tired of resting,” Arlene said, but retreated to the passenger seat.
“Take care now, you two,” Sue the nurse said. “I don’t want to see you troublemakers back here.”
They both thanked her, and they were off, into midmorning traffic. All along Liberty Avenue, trucks were double-parked and unloading in front of restaurants. Emily drove as if she were being tested.
“What’s that I smell?” Arlene asked, sniffing. “It’s like those fabric softener sheets.”
“Sorry. I spilled some coffee. I used Resolve on it.” Emily pointed vaguely toward the floor below the radio, and Arlene inspected the carpet.
“You can’t even tell.”
“No, it worked very nicely.”
“Except for the smell,” Arlene said.
“I’m sure it will go away.”
“I hope so.”
“You’re feeling better.”
“I never really felt that bad,” Arlene said. “Once they sewed me up, I was fine. It was just being there I was upset about. They’ve been poking and prodding me for a week and still don’t have a clue.”
“They were just being careful.”
“The worst place for someone our age is in the hospital.”
“I don’t know if that’s true,” Emily said.
“The infection rate’s higher, for one thing.” Arlene thumbed her window down an inch. “Do you mind terribly if I have a cigarette?”
“I thought the doctor told you to quit.”
“I am. He’s got me on the patch.” She pulled back the sleeve of her jacket to show Emily a flesh-toned square, then lit up. “If it’s going to happen, it’s not going to happen overnight. He knows that.”
“But you’re going to try?”
“I’m going to try,” Arlene said.
“That’s very brave of you.”
“I expect it’s going to be unpleasant for everyone involved.”
“It’ll be worth it.”
“You say that now. Just wait.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help.”
“Thank you,” Arlene said. “I would like to ask one thing of you, if that’s possible.”
“Anything.”
“Please don’t be too disappointed in me if I can’t.”
“I won’t,” Emily said, though she thought that was the wrong attitude to begin with.
They cruised along Fifth Avenue, past the crumbling robber baron mansions and the sooty spire of the Presbyterian church and the red-brick postwar apartment complexes and the bare trees of Mellon Park and into Point Breeze. The hospital pharmacy had filled Arlene’s prescriptions, and over the weekend Emily had restocked Arlene’s fridge, so there was no need to stop. Emily offered anyway.
“I think I’m fine, thanks,” Arlene said. “I was going to tell you before, I’m impressed you’re driving again—and doing very well, I must say. That, to me, is brave.”
“It made more sense than paying for a cab every time I had to go somewhere.”
“I appreciate you taking care of everything.”
“You’d do the same for me.”
“Still, I appreciate it. I’m sure it wasn’t easy.”
“You know what tomorrow is?” Emily asked.
“Tuesday.”
“How do you feel about breakfast? I bet Rhonda and Sandy would love to see you.”
Emily knew it was a risk. She worried that it might be too early, or that Arlene would be leery about returning to the scene of the crime. She didn’t mean to rush her.
“On one condition,” Arlene said. “I drive.”
“That’s fair. Just make sure you eat something before you get going.”
And like that, they were back to their old schedule, as if nothing had happened.
She pulled up in front of Arlene’s, expertly angling the Taurus for the curb, then hustled around to take Arlene’s bag full of stuff. Arlene was slow going up the stairs, hauling herself along by the railing. Though it hadn’t rained in days, she was wearing her Totes boots. Emily stayed behind her, shifting the bag to keep a hand free, as if she could catch her. It was only when they were on the porch and Emily was searching for the key that Arlene asked, “How are you going to get home?”
THE RESURRECTION
Arlene seemed fine driving, no more or less terrifying than before, yet Emily didn’t trust her. For years Arlene had been frail and distracted, that was just how she was. She’d always been too thin, practically concave, waistless. She was the finicky eater in the family, where Henry was the bear, a lusty plunderer of seconds and leftovers. Her hands shook, her lips trembled. She coughed and coughed, racked, as if she were dredging something up. Often she searched for words, trailing off in midsentence, then waving away the incomplete thought, one hand flapping. Now, without her cigarettes, she was worse, frustrated with herself and the world, as if it were taking all of her patience not to explode. That didn’t bother Emily. She was prone to her own fits and rages (like Margaret, and, from what Margaret said, Sarah), and Arlene’s even temper bugged her. A little irrational anger made Arlene less schoolmarmish, more human. The problem now was that Emily couldn’t stop seeing Arlene talking nonsense to her across the sneeze guard, the moment replaying like a nightmare.
The fall wasn’t the awful part. It was Arlene’s mouth moving, her tongue unable to decode her brain’s scrambled message. Waah laah wuhh. The doctors hadn’t been able to pinpoint the source of the problem, so what was to stop it from happening again?
It was just her own fear, Emily realized. Arlene was taking her medication and making a conscious effort to change—not easy at their age. Emily gave her credit, and yet the moment came again and again like a premonition. Both Margaret and Kenneth said it was natural something that traumatic
would stay with her. Emily didn’t want to hear it was normal. She wanted to know how to get rid of it.
She was extra vigilant now when she and Arlene were together, watching closely as if she might anticipate and thereby prevent the next episode. Listening to Arlene intently instead of just nodding along, Emily was surprised by how much of her conversation was plucked straight from the newspaper or the radio. Like the local media, she was particularly fixated on the Steelers, a topic Emily cared little for but could vaguely discuss by recycling what she’d absorbed over breakfast. Arlene went further, weighing the strengths and weaknesses of their opponents as if she’d personally scouted them. She knew the names of the players the way Henry or Kenneth would, whereas the only one Emily knew, from endless repetition, was Ben Roethlisberger. To her, these details were meaningless—the Steelers either won or lost—but to Arlene they comprised an entire universe she felt free to share with anyone they met, and, this being Pittsburgh, she regularly engaged waitresses and cashiers and random people in line, trading long, involved speculations Emily couldn’t fathom—more proof that Arlene was not doddering and confused but open to the larger world and possibly more with it than Emily herself was.
And still, unbidden, Arlene spoke to her across the sneeze guard, and she was afraid.
At the same time, Emily was secretly pleased she’d been able to help Arlene, as if this proved she was the stronger of the two, and pledged she would be ready the next time. Discovering she could be relied on in an emergency—and that she might be needed again—gave her the courage, one bright, dry morning after breakfast, to tug on her gloves and follow Rufus out the back and take the branching flagstone path Henry had laid forty years ago to the side door of the garage.
Rufus heard the keys and raced ahead.
“Don’t get too excited. We’re just looking.”
When she got the door open, he pushed past her, his nails scrabbling on the concrete.
“Well, pardon me.”
Emily, Alone Page 4
