No Fear

by Darcia Helle

  Nurse Higgins and I arrive at Dr. Jeremy Morgan’s closed door. She knocks and awaits the Almighty’s permission to enter.

  The Almighty Morgan’s door is always closed, whether he is with a patient or not. His office is in a separate wing where patients aren’t allowed without an invitation and an escort. The halls here are painted pale blue. The air holds a faint scent of cranberry Febreze, which almost manages to erase the stench of decay permeating the rest of the ward. The Almighty keeps his distance from the havoc he creates with his blue ink and prescription pad. The master pretender sitting on his throne while the peasants rot.

  And he says I’m the crazy one.

  His voice booms out from behind the door, granting us access to his private domain. The walls inside are deep green. He’s sitting on his high-backed leather chair, against the backdrop of the glistening blue sky framed by the window behind him. A fat cotton-candy cloud drifts by his right shoulder. I want to reach out and touch it. I haven’t been outside in almost two months, and I wonder if life still exists beyond these walls or if it’s all a mirage.

  The Almighty Morgan dismisses Nurse Higgins. His words are curt, bordering on rude. I don’t think he’s been taught the words please and thank you. I don’t think he knows what they mean.

  I’m directed to sit in the visitor’s chair opposite him, with the giant desk between us, serving as a mammoth barrier and a testament to the Almighty’s superiority. The leather smells of fear and the generic soap provided in our showers. Residual, rank odors from the patient who sat here before me. I force myself not to fidget. I want so badly to escape.

  The Almighty is surrounded by a ring of dark muddy green. Funny that he should choose almost this same color for his walls. Did he realize, on some subconscious level, that he was matching his office to his aura? His aura betrays his jealousy, lack of self-esteem, and hypersensitivity to criticism. This had been my first impression of the man who would hold my future in his hands.

  I wish I could snap a photo and show him his true colors.

  On my visit last week, a new color hovered in his aural field. Murky gray spots swirled over his chest. I’d wanted to point them out; to warn him. What good would it have done, though? He’d have upped my Thorazine dosage with another flourish of blue ink.

  Now those gray spots have turned to clusters. They dance around his heart. He’ll die tonight, the voice in my head quietly tells me.

  The Almighty Morgan asks if I still hear the voices. I shake my head. He smiles, pleased with my progress.

  The Almighty wants to know how I’m adjusting to life here on Ward D. I have trouble answering him. The gray orbs make me sad.

  Nurse Higgins comes to escort me back to the dayroom. Merriam is still screaming when we walk past. An explosion of pink erupts in the air around Nurse Higgins’ head. The streaks of color pulse in unison with Merriam’s wails. I smile at the aura of compassion. Maybe there is hope for us, after all.

  ***

  The following morning, I awake feeling unusually tired and drained. The burden of pretending weighs heavily on my spirit. I’m finding it more difficult to maintain the pretense. What does it matter if I manage to avoid the mental haze of psychotropic drugs? As long as I remain here, I can’t be myself. I am beginning to think I’d be better off in a drug-induced stupor.

  I shuffle out to the breakfast room. The air sizzles with disbelief and whispers. The nurses pass out pills to complacent patients lining up like cattle off to the slaughterhouse. Nothing has changed, but everything feels different. I carry my tray of sticky oatmeal to the corner table, where Denise sits counting the pieces of fruit in her fruit cocktail. The number always has to start out even. Then she will eat two at a time, ensuring she never has an odd number on her plate.

  After breakfast, Nurse Higgins has us gather in the dayroom, where she gives us the grim news. Dr. Jeremy Morgan had suffered a massive heart attack the prior evening. He’d died. He and his blue ink and pad of Thorazine prescriptions were gone forever. Simon pees on the floor in the corner of the room; his way of expressing his sadness.

  One of the orderlies gets Simon under control, while Nurse Higgins explains that we have nothing to worry about. We’ll be well taken care of. She gestures to a woman who’d stepped in behind her. The woman’s radiant smile lights up the room. And her aura! The most vivid royal blue I’ve ever seen surrounds the woman’s entire being. Scattered within that blue are streaks of pale and bright pink. A highly spiritual nature with intense compassion.

  Nurse Higgins introduces the newcomer as Dr. Grace Langley. Our new doctor. My new doctor.

  You’ll be all right now, the voice in my head tells me. And I smile, because the voice is always right.

  The Ocean’s Song

  Time carries us along like ripples on the tide. We start out a droplet in the vast emptiness, moving aimlessly with the ebbs and flows, and when the crest of the shore is finally in sight, when we see the sandy beach awaiting us, it’s too late to make the journey count. I’m thinking this as I hold Roger’s hand. I rub my thumb over his calloused palms. His hands are dry and chilled, but I remember their warmth and strength. I remember how they guided me through life’s storms; his hands, his strength.

  “Do you remember the beach house we rented on our fifth anniversary?” I ask. “Our first real vacation.”

  He turns to me and smiles. “How could I forget? Endless ocean and you in a sexy string bikini.”

  I laugh at that. “We’d sit on our beach chairs and watch the sun go down. That first night, you held my hand and said, ‘If I only have this moment left, I will leave this world with everything I’ve ever wanted or needed.’”

  His smile turns wistful. “You remembered. Word for word.”

  “Some words are arranged just right and you treasure them forever.”

  “I meant them. Still do. It’s okay, you know. I’m okay.”

  His face is almost as white as the hospital sheets. The word ghostly comes to mind.

  “I know,” I tell him. “But I’m not ready to let go.”

  “Unfortunately, your stubbornness won’t help you this time. You don’t get a choice in the matter.”

  Roger is dying. The words sound wrong in my head. I want to accept them, to be strong for him, to let him go. I just don’t know how to go on without him. I feel like I will drown in that ocean without him to carry me along.

  We celebrated our thirtieth anniversary four days before his diagnosis. I think he already knew, felt the cancer growing inside him, taking over, destroying. He didn’t tell me. He let me dance on a Caribbean beach with a pina colada in my hand and joy in my heart.

  Our thirty-first anniversary is just eight days away. Roger won’t make it. He’ll leave me soon, and I’ll celebrate our next anniversary alone. No pina coladas or Caribbean beaches. Just me and my memories. And my tears.

  Thirty years is not long enough, but a thousand years would still feel too short. I realize I could live another thirty years, all without Roger. How can the same amount of time feel both too short and too long?

  “Maybe you should buy a beach house,” Roger says, “just like the one we stayed in.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll have enough money from my life insurance. And you love the beach.”

  “Roger…”

  “Don’t look at me that way. I’m dying, but you’re not. I want you to live, to really live, Michelle. Buy that beach house. Set two chairs in the sand and, someday, when you’re ready, let someone join you there.”

  I shake my head. Tears run down my cheeks.

  “You’re strong,” Roger tells me. His voice is papery thin, crackling with fatigue. “Stronger than you ever realized. Dance for me on that beach, Michelle. I’ll be watching.”

  His eyes flutter and close. I want to tell him not to sleep. We have so little time left. But I know that’s me being selfish. He’s preparing to leave, and he has to take this journey alone.

  One of the nurses st
eps in. Her name is Abby. She’s my age exactly, fifty-four, and just became a grandmother for the first time. Roger and I couldn’t have children. In those early days, people often offered their sympathy for this shortcoming. They believed the absence of children made our life a little emptier, a little less than it should be. While I know Roger would have been an incredible father, neither of us dwelled on the issue. How can you miss something you’ve never had? As long as we had each other, we could conquer anything. We were complete.

  How would I ever feel whole again without him?

  Abby’s voice is a mere whisper among the endless beeping of the machines. “You should take a break,” she says. “Go down to the cafeteria, grab a coffee and sandwich. I’ll keep an eye on him and call you if anything changes.”

  I’m still holding Roger’s hand, which has gone limp with sleep. I won’t let go. Not until I have to. “I’m fine,” I tell Abby. “But thank you.”

  Hours pass and I feel the pull of sleep. The hall outside the room is quiet. Evening has settled in. The light behind Roger’s bed is on so I can watch the rise and fall of his chest. My eyelids droop. I don’t want to give in. Every moment counts, and we have so few left together.

  Roger’s fingers twitch in my hand and I’m instantly alert. He turns to me with a smile in his eyes. “You love the sound of the ocean.”

  I nod, unable to speak. I see it in his eyes. He’s leaving me.

  “Buy a beach house, my love. I’ll be there, in the ocean’s song.”

  Out for A Good Time

  Twenty-two of us had been escorted to the police station. I say escorted, though rounded up and herded into the police station is more appropriate. We saw each other briefly, registering vague recollections from the prior evening. I glimpsed fear in some eyes, amusement in others. Then, before any of us had a chance to speak, we were hustled through and put in separate interrogation rooms. Not all of us fit, of course. The overflow went into small offices or sat at desks out in the detectives’ work area. Those people had their own police escorts standing by their sides, like waiters in a fancy restaurant. Only they weren’t being served cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. The best any of us got was a Styrofoam cup full of too-strong coffee.

  Today was my lucky day. I’d gotten a private room, complete with a one-way mirror like you see in all the TV programs. I’d been sitting here almost a half-hour, by my estimate. I watch a lot of TV, so I figured this was the part where they left me alone to get me good and nervous. Someone was probably watching me through the other side of the mirror. I thought about blowing kisses or making silly faces. My better judgment kicked in and kept me from displaying such childish behavior.

  Finally, the door popped open and a man in a gray suit stepped in. His tie was askew, and his hair stood up in spots. I wanted to suggest he check himself out in the one-way mirror, but I kept my mouth shut.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Marillo. I’m Detective Lockwood.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “I assume you know why you’re here.”

  “I believe it’s because the guy in the red shirt is dead.”

  He gave me a funny look. I guess I should have pretended to be upset about that. But I wasn’t. Not even a little.

  Detective Lockwood settled into the chair opposite me. “Yes,” he said. “And his girlfriend.”

  “Her, too?” I hadn’t been sure about her. “Was she a junkie?”

  “What?”

  “She was all sorts of strung out last night. There was a vacancy sign hanging behind her eyes.”

  “Why don’t you let me ask the questions for now, all right?”

  I shrugged. “Go right ahead.”

  “You were at the Crimson Four concert last night, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  He checked his notepad, then asked about the row and seat number. I verified his information and he made a check in his notes. He looked back at me. I had sudden compassion for lab rats. Scientists probably looked at them with the same hungry expectancy.

  Lockwood’s eyes remained glued on mine as he asked, “Did you know Glen Hagen and Shauna McKenna?”

  “Who?”

  “The deceased. They sat in the row in front of you last evening.”

  “No, I didn’t know them. And just to clarify, they weren’t sitting. They alternated between a drunken sway and a sort of stumbling dance while groping each other.”

  Detective Lockwood gave me that look again. I shrugged. “They annoyed everyone,” I said. “And those seats weren’t even theirs.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “They were laughing about it, like they’d just gotten away with the best heist ever. Red Shirt was on his cellphone, trying to talk his friends into joining them. They were so excited to be down front, but they weren’t even watching the show. And they were ruining it for the rest of us.”

  “You sound angry.”

  I laughed at that. “I was. But I don’t kill everyone who makes me angry.”

  “Did you report them to security?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “The woman a couple of seats down reported them. They disappeared for a few minutes, then snuck back.”

  “Why don’t you tell me your version of events.”

  “My version? You make it sound like a movie with alternate endings.”

  Detective Lockwood sighed. “How about telling me what happened last night to the best of your recollection.”

  I settled back in my chair. “Okay.”

  “Do you mind if I record this?”

  I frowned at the mini recorder he pulled out. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Of course. If you’d prefer to speak to a lawyer and drag this out…”

  “Go ahead and make your recording. I really hate my voice on those machines. Isn’t it weird how you never sound the way you think you sound?”

  Lockwood did a slow blink, then shook his head and chose to ignore my question. He pushed the record button and gave his name, my name, the date and the time. Then he asked me again to tell him what happened.

  Stories never begin where others think they do. I couldn’t start when Red Shirt jumped over the seats. For him to understand my perspective, I had to tell it all. So I did.

  My mother lives with me and my husband. She isn’t well and requires a lot of care. Her insurance doesn’t cover all her medical expenses. Health insurance is a topic I could rant about for days. Forget healthcare reform. We need to rip the system apart and start over. But that’s not what we’re here to talk about.

  I am full-time caretaker for my mother. Between her needs and our finances, I rarely get out of the house. A trip to the grocery store has become a major outing for me. I’m forty-two and I get excited about going to the grocery store. This is the sorry state of my life.

  When I heard that Crimson Four would be playing at the Amphitheater, I knew I had to go. The concert would be my one big event of the year. I have a mad crush on the singer. Have you seen him? I mean, the man is delicious! What I wouldn’t do to have him sing only to me for one night!

  Aside from my groupie status, both my husband and I love their music. The tickets were expensive, especially the good seats. But, as I said, I never get out and I wanted this night to be special. I’m a fan club member, which gives me an in for their presale, and I was online the minute it started. I spent far too much on two tickets. Then I arranged for Betty across the street to stay with my mother. She’s a home healthcare worker and could handle my mother’s needs. I paid her, of course. No one does things for free these days.

  The day of the concert, I couldn’t wait to leave. My husband and I arrived early. We bought T-shirts—another extravagant expense—and settled into our seats. Ten rows back, center stage!

  Fast forward about an hour and the opening band came on. They were surprisingly good! I was finally losing myself and all my worries in the music when this big brute of a man came crashing down the aisle and hopped over onto
the empty seats in front of me. The drink he held sloshed all over the place. He wore a bright red shirt and that was all I could see bouncing around in front of me. Seconds later, a strung-out skinny woman stumbled over to him and they started groping each other. Red Shirt had his phone out and they turned their back to the band. They stood there, giddy like teenagers, taking photos of themselves with the band behind them.

  The photo session went on for about five minutes. Finally they turned around, but they didn’t sit or even stay reasonably still. They staggered, swayed, whooped, and hollered. Red Shirt had his hands all over the strung-out woman. I wanted to tell them to get a room. Seriously, I am not hung up about public displays of affection, but these people were slobbering all over each other. And they were doing it in my direct line of vision, blocking the only man I wanted to think about being groped by.

  Everyone around them was snickering and rolling their eyes. Two people had their cell phones out and were taking video of the idiots. I could only see the far ends of the stage, where no one was standing. Red Shirt bounced around like he was all that mattered in the world.

  When Red Shirt stumbled and almost fell in our laps, the woman two seats over had had enough. She went to report Red Shirt to security, but the couple took off before security got to them.

  Intermission came and we breathed a collective sigh of relief, thinking Red Shirt had moved to a different territory. The people with the seats in front of me never showed up. Five minutes after Crimson Four came on stage, much to my horror, Red Shirt and his zoned-out companion returned for an encore performance. Red Shirt stampeded down the aisle, grinning like a mad man. We were all on our feet, dancing in place and cheering the band. Red Shirt knocked a few people backward, onto their seats, and wound up standing right in front of me once again. The strung-out woman was glued to his side, slithering against him as he thrashed about.