Skin Cage

by Nico Laeser

  I am digging through the drawers of my desk when my phone rings.

  “Hello?” I say and continue searching through the stack of papers.

  “Hello, David, this is Doctor Hossieni.”

  “Oh hi, thanks for calling me back.” I attempt to gather both the stack of papers and my thoughts.

  “That’s no problem, David, what can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to know if I’m eligible for palliative care?”

  “Your condition is considered terminal, so yes,” he says in the same curt manner that makes my eyes roll in their sensitive sockets.

  “How do I go about admitting myself?”

  “If you have a place in mind, I can call and refer you.”

  “I was reading up on the Statham House on Carol Street; that’s where I would like to go, as soon as possible,” I say staring at the web page that is still open on my browser.

  “If you are sure about it, David, then I can call them today, but even if there is an opening, there will likely be a waiting period, is that okay?” he says.

  “I’m sure, and the waiting period is fine; I need a little time to sort out a few things.”

  “Okay, David, I think that this is probably the right move for you. I will call back later and let you know if they can get you in,” he says.

  I thank him before we say goodbye, and I go back to sorting through the mess of papers spread out on the desk and floor. When I find what I’m looking for, I fold it and put it into my pocket before stuffing the rest back into the drawer.

  CHAPTER 44

  I am counseled

  I cross-reference the address with the one on the letterhead and enter through an inconspicuous door that I had missed twice previously. In the foyer next to the elevator, there is a brass plaque on the wall that lists each of the conglomerate businesses. I head up in the elevator and to the office marked with its own brass plaque, Meacham, Dwyer, and Associates, 412.

  The girl at the desk says, “Hi, can I help you?”

  “I need to talk to James Carlyle,” I say.

  “Do you have an appointment?” she asks and clenches the chewing gum between her teeth.

  “No, I just have a couple questions.”

  “Your name?” she asks. I can hear the saliva squeeze out from the gum between her teeth, and I am trying desperately to hide my repulsion.

  “David Wolfe.”

  “Just take a seat, and I will see if Mr. Carlyle is available,” she says.

  I take a seat and open my book. The smacking mouth noises are amplified by the remnants of my hangover and drown out the first paragraph. I read it again but my brain is glass, fragile and non-porous.

  ***

  “David?” she says.

  “Yes?”

  “If you want to go through to his office, he can see you right now; it’s the third door on the right,” she says.

  I knock before entering.

  “David, how are you?” the well-groomed man says from behind an oversized desk that seems to take up all of the space in his small office.

  “I’m okay. Do you remember me?” I ask.

  “Of course,” he says and frowns.

  “Would you say that you know me well?” I ask.

  “Where are you going with this, David? You’ve been a fairly regular client for years, with one defamation or libel accusation after another,” he says.

  “Okay, I’m going to give you the short version just in case I’m paying by the hour,” I say, “I hit my head a couple months ago and lost my memory. It’s pretty well all back, but there are a few things that I can’t remember, and I figured since you are my lawyer, then you might know.”

  “Okay, wow, I’m intrigued,” he says through a smirk, without relinquishing the frown held in his brow.

  “Do I have any next of kin, or a Will?”

  He hesitates for a couple seconds and then says, “No mother, absent father, no siblings, no kids that I’m aware of, and no Will.”

  “You’re sure?” I ask.

  “I advised you to talk to Jocelyn, our estate planning attorney, three years ago when you were diagnosed, ‘terminal,’ and you refused, saying that it was pointless because you had little to give and nobody to give it to,” he says as if reading from a card, “have you changed your mind?”

  “No, I just didn’t want to spend the college fund set aside for a kid I didn’t know I had,” I say through a smirk of my own.

  “Nope, you’re off the hook for alimony, David,” he says.

  “That’s all I needed; do I still have to pay for a full hour?

  CHAPTER 45

  I am leaving

  I have been running around trying to wrap up all my loose ends for a couple days. Doctor Hossieni called back and told me that there is a place for me in the care home, and that they will be ready to accept me in just a week. I found out that my medical insurance would cover most of the cost. I spoke with the building manager, whose name I now remember is Beth, or Betty to most, and arranged to have a disposal company come in and remove my furniture when I’m gone. Everything else is packed up and ready to go.

  ***

  I called Harry on my way to the bar and told him that I would be leaving at the end of the week, and he promised to visit me after his current round of treatment.

  I arrive before the bar is open as planned, so that I can just put the envelope through the letter slot, but as I’m walking away, I hear the door open and, “David?”

  I turn around. “I didn’t think that you’d be here,” I say.

  “What’s this?” she says holding out the envelope, “Are you coming in?”

  I follow her in, and she bolts the door behind us.

  “I wasn’t expecting to be here when you opened it,” I say and perch on one of the barstools.

  Her eyes grow wide and her mouth opens, but she doesn’t say anything.

  “No, not like that. I checked myself into a care home; I’m going to be living there after this week,” I say.

  “I thought you meant ... ” she starts.

  “No, I’m okay,” I say with a reassuring smile.

  She looks down at the envelope. “So what is this?”

  “You might as well open it.”

  She opens the envelope, pulls out the letter and the second smaller envelope from inside, and frowns.

  “Read it,” I say.

  She unfolds the paper and reads aloud, “Authorities have asked for the public’s help in identifying a man being sought in connection with a bank robbery that occurred on Monday. A National Trust bank located on 12th Street was robbed at approximately 10:30 a.m.. Police have not disclosed the amount of money stolen.” She looks up at me with an uneasy expression.

  “Keep reading,” I say with a smirk.

  “Customers that were in the bank during the robbery remain shocked but uninjured. The police have released images of a man in his late thirties to early forties dressed in jeans and tweed. Police are asking all passengers of the number thirty-six bus traveling east at that time to call with any information about the suspect, as this was possibly used as the getaway vehicle. As the robber stopped to catch his breath before evading police via public transit, he is rumored to have said, “It wasn’t my idea. Barb told me to do it.” Anyone with information on the identity or whereabouts of the robber or ‘Barb,’ seemingly the mastermind behind the crime, are asked to contact the authorities.” She hesitates for a second, then begins to laugh.

  “What is this?” she asks.

  “Open the other envelope,” I say.

  “Your take?” she says, reading what I have written on the envelope.

  She opens the envelope and the puzzled frown seems to expand on her face, her eyes go wide, and her mouth drops open. “Paris?”

  “Two tickets, there and back. You can use them whenever you want, they’re open-ended,” I say, smiling.

  “What’s this?” She pulls out the check. “David?”

  “Spending money; i
t’s your take from the robbery,” I say, chuckling.

  “I can’t take this; it’s too much,” she says, shaking her head.

  “What am I going to do with it?” I say, “I have no family; you win by default, Barb.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” she says, and there are tears welling up in her eyes.

  “Just come and visit me in the care home every now and then.”

  I flinch a little as she throws her arms around me, “Thank you, David.”

  This is the first time that I have been held this way by anyone since I was fifteen years old.

  “Thank you,” I say, “for helping me remember who I am and what’s important.”

  She returns to staring at the tickets and wipes the tears away from her eyes.

  “The address for the care home is on the back of the letter,” I tell her.

  She flips it over and reads aloud, “To friends,” and begins to half-giggle, half-cry.

  “I’m going to miss you, Barb,” I say.

  “You won’t have a chance to miss me. I’ll come and visit,” she says.

  “Okay, I’ll call you when I’m settled in.”

  III

  CHAPTER 46

  I am admitted

  I pay the cab driver, pull my cases out of the back of the minivan taxi, and set them down by the step. I think about telling the driver that if he is dropping his fare off at a palliative care home with boxes and suitcases, then they are probably staying, most likely dying, and he might want to lend a hand with the luggage. I don’t say this, but I think it hard enough that it radiates from my glare as we make eye contact through the half-open window via the mirror on the driver’s door. I pull the last of the boxes out of the back of the van, close the hatch, and with an emphasized lack of enthusiasm, I say, “Thanks for the ride.”

  I assume that he was expecting a bigger tip, seeing as how I don’t need it anymore, but he says nothing and pulls away.

  ***

  By the time I have carried, pushed, and slid all of my belongings through the double doors, I am dripping with sweat. My heart, pulse, and seemingly even the blood in my veins, is beating fast and hard. My mouth is dry, and the air I’m breathing seems sharp and coarse as it scrapes its way to my lungs.

  I sit in a chair in the foyer and concentrate on my breathing, trying to convince my pulse to slow down. My heart thumps in my chest six, seven, times with each strained breath in, and I am unsure if the accompanying pain is real or psychosomatic. There is pressure around my eyes, and regardless of phantom or physical status, it hurts like hell, like shot glasses being forcefully inserted into my skull via my eye sockets. I am trying desperately to calm down, which in itself is contradictory to the task, and with every twinge, pain, pinch, and ache, I feel closer to passing out.

  I stand and turn to see the ossified liquid-fire shell, burning in the blue-black, and I stare for a while at the volcanic engine at its center, responsible for the acceleration of David’s inevitable end. I take a little time to prepare and ready myself for the sensory blitz and return to my shell, doing my best to stay calm and maintain a certain mental detachment as I endure the physical onslaught for what seems like hours, but is more likely minutes.

  After a time, I am able to breathe deeper, as the blades and needles are pulled out slowly, one-by-one, and the bloody wounds subsequently coagulate. My heart rate slows to a pace closer to normal, and the majority of symptoms eventually subside, leaving little trace of my attacker, save for the sole sweat-drenched survivor, exhausted from the melee.

  A familiar voice says, “David?”

  I breathe a sigh and rub the sweat and tears from my eyes, trying to focus on the woman standing in front of me. “Anna?”

  “Yes, have we met?” she asks and cocks her head to the side.

  “Your name tag,” I say between deep breaths.

  “Are you alright?” she takes my wrist in her hand.

  “I’m fine; I just need a minute,” I manage.

  “Do you want a glass of water?” she asks, and I nod.

  She calls to a man walking past the doorway and asks for him to bring me a glass of water.

  “Your last name is Statham, any relation?” I say, already knowing the answer.

  “You mean the name of the facility?” she asks, “It’s named after my mother.”

  The young man, dressed in a light blue uniform, enters the foyer with a glass of water and hands it to me. I smile and thank him before he leaves.

  “Looks like you brought a lot with you, David,” she says and nods toward the boxes.

  “Those are my books. I thought that maybe I could just add them to your library, if you have one,” I say, sipping at the water.

  Her smile widens. “We do have a library, and that is very thoughtful of you, David.”

  “Not entirely selfless; I couldn’t bear to leave them behind or for them to be discarded along with my furniture,” I say.

  “I’ll show you to your room, David. Are you okay to walk, or do you need help?” She lets go of my wrist.

  “I’m okay.” I stand up and reach for my suitcases, but she tells me to leave them, and she will have someone come back for them. I follow her through the double doors at the end of the foyer and into the main room.

  “This is the dayroom, David; this is where most of our residents choose to spend their days, although some prefer to stay in their private rooms, and we ask that you respect everyone’s right to privacy,” she says.

  I scan the room for Cassie, but she’s not in the room. As I meet the gaze of the residents, most smile or acknowledge me with a wave. I smile and wave back.

  Anna points to a room with a large window and says, “That’s the nurse’s lounge; non-staff personnel are not allowed in that room, but if you need to speak with one of the nurses, then you can ask whichever member of staff is on duty, and they will relay your message.”

  “Okay,” I say and peer through the glass at the empty room.

  “At the end of this hallway is the library. This is hallway D, and your room is 117-D,” she says.

  “Right between the dayroom and the library; that sounds like prime real estate,” I say.

  She turns and smiles. “All the rooms are pretty much the same, but if there is anything that you want to add or if there is anything you need, then feel free to ask.”

  “Thank you,” I say and follow her to room 117.

  She opens the door and we walk inside. “The facility is non-smoking; if you do smoke, then you have to go into the garden behind the house. There are designated smoking areas, and one of the members of staff will help you out there if you need it.”

  “I don’t smoke. The room is nicer than my apartment,” I say as I look around the room, “Do the rooms have cable and Internet?”

  “Yes, all of the rooms have cable and Internet connection,” she replies.

  “This place is great,” I say.

  “If you have any problems with any of the other residents, then please let a member of staff know, and we will deal with the issue. There are residents here that have some mental issues, so be patient with them. We house the high-maintenance residents in C wing, and the ones that can, rarely use either dayroom, but if and when they do, just try to treat them with the same respect that you would show to anyone else,” she says.

  “Okay, I will,” I say.

  “There is a copy of the orientation plan on your bedside table, and someone will be along shortly with all of your admission paperwork. If you wouldn’t mind taking the time to read through the orientation plan, while I have someone bring your belongings to you, that would be wonderful,” she says and gestures toward the stack of stapled paper.

  “Thank you, Anna,” I say.

  “You’re very welcome, David, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says.

  I take her extended hand in both of mine. “It’s a pleasure to see you too, Anna.”

  CHAPTER 47

  I am David

  Anna
brings me into the library, and sitting just inside are four boxes, the four that I brought with me, that contain David’s books.

  “There is an empty bookcase that you can use and organize your books however you like. If you write the bookcase number just inside the front cover, then your books will always be returned here if someone takes them out,” Anna says.

  I smile and ask if she has a pen.

  I am unpacking the third box, one classic at a time, scrawling the corresponding number, 62, on the inside of each book jacket before stowing them side by side in their new home. I hear a familiar beat growing louder from the hallway. My heartbeat synchronizes to the clip-clip of her heels for a couple seconds, before gaining tempo and racing ahead to meet her at the doorway.

  I try to stay focused on what I’m doing, or at least seem as though I am, when she enters the room.

  “Hello, David, I’m Cassie,” she says and I swallow her voice like neat liquor, traveling hot, right past my pounding heart and down to my stomach.

  The book in my hand trembles, and I have to put in down before it gives me away. “Hi, I’m David.” My words flounder and fall to the floor.

  I’m embarrassed at having introduced myself after she addressed me by name. “I guess you already know that, sorry, I’m ... ” I stand up and turn to face her. “Nice to meet you.”

  There is a smile waiting behind her expression. “Anna tells me that you brought your own library.”

  “My books mean a lot to me; no matter where you are, you can always go back to the places you have loved in books,” I say.

  “Do you mind if I look through them?” she asks.

  “No, not at all, go right ahead.” I stand there like a child holding up a stick figure drawing, waiting for approval.

  “The Time Machine.” She pulls the book out. “I haven’t read this since I was a little girl.”

  I have to hold my tongue. I knew you would love them, Cassie.