by Charles Bock
She awoke to a feeling. “Pushing.”
Mumbling, her voice a flutter. “At my jaw.”
She had him place his hand on her throat. The nodes, glands, whatever.
“Swollen,” Oliver confirmed.
“I feel like a chipmunk.” Her eyes glistening, her expression pained.
Nurse Hwan responded to the buzz and promptly examined Alice. Without alarm, she explained this was a common side effect of the radiation. “We have a mouth rinse that usually works for this.”
“Also my kitty feels a bit itchy.”
The practitioner stared over the top of her eyewear.
“It burns when you urinate?”
“No.”
“Any discharge?”
“No.”
“Discomfort?”
“Just what I said.”
“A bit itchy?”
“A bit itchy.”
When the doctors on rounds made their way to the room, Alice played her role to perfection, answering the questions of the attending (old man; trim gray beard), correcting his facts, then making new admissions: her ears were filled with fluid; she’d had two attacks of dry heaves during the night, felt a seasick sort of stomach pain. Her thermometer check revealed fever. Examining her mouth revealed blood clotted along the inside of her cheek, the inside gums.
The doctor prescribed a few drugs, as well as a couple of tests.
Nurse Hwan took the samples, and the breakfast tray arrived. “I’m famished,” Alice said, but Oliver noticed she took only two bites of her bagel. Then her hand stretched toward her stomach. Her legs rose. She cringed.
Nurse Hwan reached for the house phone, told the floor operator to page the attending.
“So easy to be positive when you aren’t feeling horrendous,” Alice whispered. “The pain melts all of it.”
Oliver started toward her. She winced again. Nurse Hwan told them she was still on hold.
And knocking. A thin orderly, his smock reaching toward his knees, pants bunched in folds and creases around what looked to be hunting boots. He pushed a wheelchair inside. “Transport here. Up to radiation—we ready to bounce?”
Alice studied him, her face twisted, a dawning horror. “Oh no. I’m so stupid. My lotion.”
“Lotion?” Oliver asked.
She staggered, rose to the side of the bed, and unplugged the Christmas tree of IV bags and batteries. Alice was a soldier with orders now, wheeling the tree to the bathroom. She stood over the sink; water ran. She raised a wet cloth and soap to her face, began a vigorous rubbing.
“Yes,” Nurse Hwan was saying, into the phone. “Correct.”
—
A new nausea medicine was ordered from the pharmacy, and the doctor was explicit in his desire for it to be humming through Alice’s veins before she went down to radiation. But this was not Oliver’s trigger. Rather, it was that skinny homeboy, the orderly. Homie heard the news about the new infusion bag, he looked down. Dude sort of shifted his weight from one mosquito leg to the other, cursed under his breath—Oliver saw that he was irritated by the wait, and this is what got him.
Oliver estimated how long it would take for the medicine to arrive, then for the IV bag to empty. He guessed at the waiting time in a backed-up radiation center, plus two hours for the physical procedure. It all but guaranteed that today’s coffee klatch would be here by the time Alice got back. He needed to survive a little longer. Make it that long, freedom was his: the city streets, their clutter and hassles; skies full of bus exhaust, a train pulling into the station while he waited to buy a token. Oliver went to Alice’s laundry bag and checked its contents. He tightened its strings, checked her drawer, made a mental note to himself to buy her new underwear, so she would not have to wear the hospital’s mesh ones before this load came back. He asked through the bathroom door if she had a preferred or favorite place.
He grabbed the 9 heading downtown—best thing he could do was get to the office.
—
Basically, Generii was done. The graphics, interface, and layout all worked: a grayish white field, a minimal ruler setting off page dimensions. You could import paragraphs, even whole files. True, the goddamn cursor kept going loopy when it ran over the bottom quadrant, meaning Oliver still had to track down that erroneous line of code. And any extra spaces, colons where semicolons should be, or slight typos resulted in all kinds of weird shit. There was still a laundry list, thousands of fixes.
He’d also done what he could to hold off the oncoming financial disaster, subletting out the new office space for a few months, moving the base of operations back into the apartment until Alice came home. But the Brow only came around one night a week to code, and even that was for a few hours at best, claiming he had no spare time, was back in graduate school.
Worst of all, Ruggles had started leaving messages on the apartment machine. Hey, bud. Hope all is great with the wife. Hope you’re hanging in. Sending much much love. Okay. Yo, my man. Just checking to see how Alice is doing. I’ve been meaning to get up there and see her. Maybe Friday. Give me a call, we’ll set that up. (Whether or not Oliver felt guilty about his suspicions, he didn’t return those calls.)
His subway car was jammed; he grabbed the nearest pole to keep from lurching when the train started. On instinct, Oliver felt around in his coat, made sure he had his little hand sanitizer bottle. In front of him a young woman with platinum dyed hair and bangs was listening to her Discman. The bright yellow strands of her headphones ran down the sides of her neck, and the front of her leather jacket, into her lap. He noticed her sniffles, how she dabbed at her nostril with a Kleenex.
Letting go of the beam, Oliver started toward the car’s opposite end.
—
I plant myself in that bicycle seat without pride, do not even think of standing. Behind the protective wall of glass, they press their buttons. That giant machine hums. Presently everything on my skin gets so warm. I am dried out beneath this heat lamp. I sit there so long, being bombarded, that I lose track of what’s happening, where I am. When they finally unstrap me, I practically pour from the chair, so worn down that I’m thankful an orderly is waiting, and don’t care that it’s the slim, sullen one. He wheels me down the hallway; I tell him of my gratitude. He responds by letting me know, “I get paid to wait through patient treatment.”
We pass an elderly woman on the hall pay phone. She’s explaining the horrible smell from whatever medicine they’re putting into her husband’s catheter. “I can’t take it anymore,” she says.
I know how you feel, I want to tell her.
But then catch myself. Because I don’t.
Waiting for the elevator, the orderly at my side. Just the two of us now, neon fritzing above. “We all have jobs,” he says. He’s looking straight and forward into the thick metal doors. “Doctors do they jobs. Technicians do they jobs. Nurses sometimes do they job. My job, I get graded on pushing you where you need. I makes my bonus on how I keep that schedule. They keep you waiting, I don’t get paid. You feel me?”
“I feel you,” I manage. “But I don’t understand what you expect me to do.”
He shifts his weight, stares forward.
“Doctors ordered the drip,” I say.
Not blinking. Hands behind his back as if cuffed.
“Now that you mention it,” I continue. “After the surgery for my central line, I spent three hours drugged in a hallway, waiting for anybody to take me to my room. Who gets the bonus on that?”
A sounding chime; a green arrow points downward. I surprise myself again, rising, of my own power, from out of the wheelchair.
“Hey,” said the orderly, “You can’t—”
“Watch me.”
With one hand I hold my giant binder to my chest. With my other I grab my Christmas tree.
“Come on,” I say. Thighs trembling, I step inside. My voice is a melody: “We must get upstairs. Have to keep the schedule, don’t you know.”
—
W
hat I am doing is wrong, this is clear: heading back to my room, standing on my own accord, refusing to make eye contact with the orderly—causing problems for him. Tattoos swirl on his forearms and alight on his wrists, can’t be twenty-two. It’s hard to believe he’s pushing me around so he can sock his minimum-wage salary away for graduate school. I’d take that bet, anyway. Most of my nursing assistants seem recent arrivals to this country, probably they commute an hour and back from their nether-boroughs each day, then spend interminable shifts changing my sheets and emptying my pisspots, only to have their employment agency take a nice cut of their checks.
The elevator slows, descending back to my floor. I’m reminded that our mayor—whom I did not vote for—got elected in no small part by demonizing untold people of color, and that he did this to prey on the fears of a demographic that’s undeniably my own. I’m suddenly chagrined, ashamed of having added, however fleetingly, to the cultural hostility in our smoggy air—especially as my well-being, indeed, my life, to no small extent depends on these all-but-indentured servants, waiting on me, literally with hand and foot.
Still, I feel so alive.
Almost soaring. Riding this righteous wave of anger.
And it is here that I realize—maybe the right word is appreciate—just how much I enjoy my own voice.
—
Stillness has taken over, the resonant quiet before my friends arrive. I’m determined to not let this quiet crush me. I have to use it, head deeper inside. Back in my bed, I take three spoonfuls of chicken soup—all I can handle. I feel myself being sapped, all adrenaline dissipating, the price of my insolence. I’m heated, my face damp. I lie back, shut my eyes, but the room keeps spinning. Thoughts drift, collide—not quite a fever blur, but not lucidity, either, my states of consciousness like a series of possible outfit choices for an important date. I keep slipping in and out of them, am only aware of them in retrospect, seeing the eyesore of dresses all over the floor, the stray thoughts of my naps and half dreams.
I don’t know whether to feel relief when knocking intrudes—recognizable and catchy rhythms, a light metal song, all over the radio ten years ago.
“Music therapy?”
I raise my head, am still in a fugue state, groggy—not quite awake, not asleep—half-wincing at the overhead lights.
“They said at the desk you might—”
Peeking into the room—his sculpted hair, that stubble.
“Whoa,” he says. “Funny running into you here.”
Still gaunt, that beaten air to him. His leather jacket fits well. He stops in the doorway, starts putting on a mask. The way his eyes inhale me is unmistakable. I feel myself panicked, breathless.
I say, “I hoped we wouldn’t see each other again.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
His body lurches to the left as he enters the room. His limp is pronounced, each step of his right leg a test of its ability to carry weight. It’s almost painful to watch. A beaten black case drags down his strong side. His other hand holds a small amp.
“What happened? Your leg—”
“This? Just a flesh wound.”
“How can you be here?”
“I got carried away. I know.”
“You’re not still—”
Navigating his gear around the bed is a struggle, but he manages, reaching the far side of the room, in front of the lounger. “No,” he says. He leans over, unlocks the case, removes his electric keyboard. Turning, he spots an outlet in the corner, bends to plug in. “Honest, I’m just here to provide you therapeutic release from your ailments.”
I wait a beat. “I’m surprised you didn’t bring ice cream.”
He turns, facing me. “I got carried away.”
On my right hand, in the space between my thumb and longest finger, I notice a long sun spot. My hands are dappled with them, whiskey stains on a tablecloth. “They warn you the radiation does it,” I tell him. “But when it happens it’s shocking.” I know he’s watching me, keep examining my hands.
“What songs do you play?” I ask. Because he has not left. Because something has to happen. “Come on. Give the sick woman a show.”
He keeps staring. “Enough of soft-eyed male pleading,” I say. “Enough with the apologies. I’d like some music therapy, please.”
He plinks a key, as if testing it. Two more in quick succession.
His attention moves to his amp, some knob—twisting, checking a plug.
When his head rises I recognize fragility, someone trying to catch what he wants to say. He leans forward, puts his hands on his knees. He starts tapping, his fingers dancing in practiced syncopation, maybe one of his exercises. Bushy eyebrows rumple into his concentrating face. “You know what, remember when—” He stops, put a fist on his mouth. “Okay. Do over.”
“During the summer I busted my leg, yeah, can you tell? Fucking thing—just the way doctors warned. Don’t watch where you’re going, you’ll step wrong and wham. Did my stupid ass listen? One clunky step on an uneven sidewalk. I heard the snap, felt a jolt, wham.”
“Bad?” I ask.
“Busted femur. They’re telling me I might not ever walk normal again, might never run again, even after all the therapy.”
“Mervyn—”
“Yeah. Thigh cast all June. Had to move back in with my dad in Jersey. At least I found a subletter so I can keep my pad. But a big wake-up. No more denial.”
When I nod, I feel a tightness in my jaw, a twinge.
“I’m taking courses at NYU, working toward grad school. Music is what I can do, so music therapy. Maybe I can do something for other people. That’s the plan anyway.”
“I remember you being more cynical.” I catch myself, wait. “You’re not the musical therapist then?”
“They have one on staff. She’s great, actually. But only two days a week. And they’ve got all these patients just sitting around, waiting for what? There’s a demand. I saw the flyer on the department board at school, so here I am, volunteer intern. I do some requests, a few classics, or just play along, you know, listening to them and adding background noise.”
He looks at me, says: “It was that horrible?”
Those eyes. Their desire. Their hangdog sadness.
“Not so bad,” I answer. “It wasn’t anything.”
And then I say, “Do you know what you caused?”
“What? Wanting to live a little?”
“My husband—”
“Innocent pecking? That’s so wrong?”
“Like I said, it wasn’t anything.”
“I know.”
“Nothing happened that mattered.”
“I know,” he says, softer this time.
“What could have happened?”
Orderlies wheel a food tray past the room. Their heads turn.
“Nothing could happen. Nothing.”
The strain burns, cords flaring through my throat. I cough; pain rises up my jawbone, my vocal cords tightening. I reach for my neck. With silence the hurt withdraws a bit. My eyes are shut; I hear him, feel his energy—he wants to help. I chance it and twist my neck as much as I can, motioning, side to side. No.
—
Oliver returned to Alice on her side, zigzagged beneath her quilt, motionless, her eyes shut, her mouth wide open. The stillness of the room was eerie to him. He noticed that the lounger where he slept had been moved closer to the bed. He noticed that much of the hospital lunch had been eaten. Oliver spent some time throwing out the remains of the morning’s untouched Ensure drink. He poured a fresh glass of ice water. When Alice begin to stir, he approached, wanting to kiss her on the near cheek. She sensed something, was startled to attention, her eyes going wide. Oliver watched her take him in, uncertain about who he was.
But in one, two blinks, she had her bearings, and was recognizing that it was him.
Oliver knew what his shaved face meant to her, how she interpreted his washed and combed hair. Immediately, he felt exposed. But before he could respo
nd, her eyes went moon large. She was trying to speak, looking to him for help. Moaning; low, pained sounds. Her panic radiated outward now, contagious. Oliver asked, “What’s wrong?” even as he saw that her jaw had locked, rigid indentations of their hinges and gears flexing down her left side.
Mm ttttttngggg mmmm tnhhgg.
She moaned, unable to open her mouth, sounding pained, pointing now: Ccnnnn tllka. EEyy Ccnnn tttlllk.
“Get someone here,” he told the squawk box, blunt as a hammer. Then he spoke with a resolution that was precise.“Room six. Oh. Eight. Jay. NOW.”
Taking Alice’s hand, he told her it was okay. He told her to breathe. “Let it go. In and release.” Maybe they could do a breathing exercise? The rhythms from her birthing?
He could see her mind racing, sizing up the possibilities. She gave in, tried breathing out, releasing through her nose. Her posture became that much better, back straightening, shoulders going wide. When she inhaled again, her eyes had cleared of panic. Alice nodded at him, released another breath. Her face now held the shrewdness of composure. She mumbled once again, could not be understood, and this started to vex her. Now she thought, waited, pressed her tongue against her locked jaw. Tapping a hand to the other side of her face, she motioned.
“Tongue, too?”
The night resident, a youngish man with short brown hair and a long nose, was not surprised. He eased his gloved hand against Alice’s jaw, helped open her mouth, shone his penlight inside.
“Plus a swollen tongue, check. Listing and to the right.”
She moaned assent.
“Yeah,” he responded. “Radiation does weird things to salivary glands.”
Lemon drops were the answer, the doctor reported. Alice needed to generate saliva and her problems would subside. “Drink more water. Lots more. Eat and suck on lemon drops. And don’t talk so much.”
Oliver rushed down five flights of stairs and dropped eight dollars on a bag at the gift shop. The drops worked—unclenching Alice’s jaw, loosening her tongue. When she finally spoke, her words came slowly—thnnk yuuuu—and it sounded as if she had marbles in her mouth. An hour later, when the attending stopped by again, Alice volunteered, with more than a little defensiveness: she thought she’d been drinking a lot.
