by E. B. Lee
Carli arrived at her apartment to find Grant waiting outside on the sidewalk, a bouquet of raging red tulips in his hand.
“For me?” she asked.
“Give me your bags. We have work to do,” he said.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Wilson. In the hospital. His system’s close to collapse. It doesn’t look good. Thought you should know. Lucky me, bringing the bad news. Welcome home.”
Carli quickly digested his words.
“His kidneys are at about 50 percent functionality, and his liver is practically shot. They have him on something to help with his detox. It’s a lousy game of wait and see.”
“When did this happen?” she asked.
“Couple of days ago. The nurses look fearful, what with him jaundiced and vomiting. Wouldn’t be surprised if they tried to scrub him down sometime soon, or next time.”
“Scrub him down? Next time? What do you mean?” she asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. Let’s just go.”
As they rode through traffic, Carli took a long look at Grant. “Good to see you. How are you?”
“Terrific,” he said. “Except for this. I missed you.”
Wilson slept under a pile of blankets. His color still had a jaundiced sheen to it, and his breathing was shallow. Carli thought of Wilson grabbing the fragrance of pear or lily of the valley out of thin air, and she desperately wished he were well enough to smell them now. Grant pulled Carli aside, so as not to wake him. “He’s going to be here a while. At least, we can hope for that. The alternative is six feet under,” said Grant. “Mercy and the doctors have a place lined up for him if they can keep his body functioning enough to stay alive. It has the best support system around. Counseling, groups, and medical liaisons to keep him tied to his doctors.”
Carli wanted to share perfume in the park with him, not watch him die. She gazed at Wilson and then closed her eyes and prayed. Moments later, a young female nurse peeked into the room, circled the bed, checked the monitors, and left. Carli watched Grant’s eyes follow her around and then stop when they came back around to Carli. He smiled a sly smile.
“I used to love the old uniforms,” he confessed. “Those white stockings reminded me of a swan’s long white neck, and those pointed hats they used to wear reminded me of wings and a tail.”
Carli wondered why he had chosen now to share this information. Grant shrugged off her stare like a cow casually swishing a fly with its tail.
“How long until we know if any of this working?” she asked, leaving the hospital.
“More than a minute. Less than a year,” said Grant, with little emotion but an odd certainty.
“What?”
“Don’t know. It’s out of our hands,” he said.
They walked quietly. She wondered if she had strength enough to continue. If Wilson’s body gave out, she would face another loss, surely a setback for her painting. The worst of it, though, was it would be far more painful than she ever could have imagined; she had grown fond of Wilson, even if he peed in public. Carli wanted desperately to save him from his alcohol-coated life.
“Where to first? Wilson?” Carli asked the next day.
Grant looked up for a moment. “No. The piers. Let’s catch some sunshine.”
“Grant, he looked like he was on the verge of dying. He might already be dead.”
“It’s a nice day for that, too. Let’s go.”
Grant began walking. Carli caught up and stopped him with a hand against his chest.
“We’re checking Wilson, right?”
“Sure, why not.”
“Wait,” she stopped him again. “Are you all right?”
“Sure.” He stared blankly and resumed walking.
Wilson’s outer appearance was unchanged, but his doctor hailed certain test numbers as evidence of slight internal improvements. Wilson strained his eyes when Carli and Grant approached his bed. Then, he gave the weakest of smiles. To Carli, it felt like a first magnificent sunburst after a horrible deluge.
Wilson’s lack of strength made the visit brief. Less than fifty words were exchanged between them. Carli held in tears while Grant, for some reason, inquired about the nurse.
Once outside, Carli pried again. “Grant, how were your tests?”
“Fine,” he answered.
“What were your numbers?”
“Don’t know,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I couldn’t do them. Was busy with Wilson. It’s pretty ugly, but he’ll die soon enough.”
“Grant, you promised.”
“Yes, promised to take care of them. We’re doing it, right?”
“I think your dose needs a change.”
Carli phoned Doctor Greenberg.
“Without seeing him, or knowing the levels,” said the doctor, “it’s unclear. My guess is he’s gone off.”
“Off?”
“Yes. Off his medication.”
“Why would he do that?” Carli slowly asked.
“Because he thought he could get away with it. Or just wanted to. He must have been feeling better. Not uncommon at all, if this is what happened. Tell him to come see me.”
Carli shut her eyes. “Oh, dear God,” she barely whispered. It was Lucy’s denial all over again, but worse.
“Am I seeing you this week?” asked the doctor.
“Yes. Definitely.”
Carli phoned Kristin next. All she said was, “Help.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Kristin.
“Everything.”
“Uh oh.”
“Grant’s off his medication. At least, it seems like it. Wilson, the perfume man, is in the hospital, and in horrible shape. I haven’t been out to see Vera or Sarah yet. That makes more than two weeks without a visit.”
“Sister, that sucks.”
“On top of it all, I doubt my paintings will get any attention. Why does life always do this?” asked Carli.
“Don’t know. It just does. But I have faith in you. You’ll get through it.”
“I was so excited to tell you about my trip. It was awesome. I was truly doing it.”
“Details, Sister. Hand them over. I could use a good distraction. I have a couple of tough projects going on right now, myself,” said Kristin.
“Sorry, I didn’t even ask. We’ll get to you, but first, Wyoming was spectacular. Through my cabin window I saw mountains. All around, it was so big and open and unlike here. No gutter water after a rain. Fresh air all the time. Crickets and mountains. Bison crossing grasslands, and tiny ants crawling on mega-mountains.”
“Better than roaches on the kitchen counter? No way,” said Kristin.
“Oh, yes. Wayyy better.”
“Lucky you. Did you get the material you need for the rest of your work?”
“Absolutely, and then some. You would have loved all the colors. You’re such a color guru. Can tell the slightest variations in everything. You always got the blends on those materials perfect.”
“Color is my inner soul,” said Kristin, “which is why I am having such a lousy time with one of my projects. The client doesn’t get it. The colors they like are fighting with the message. I’m at wit’s end. I hate having controlling clients that are totally clueless.”
“It’s the worst. Sorry for you,” said Carli.
“And Grant?” asked Kristin.
“Picture yourself in a canoe on a river. You’re looking upstream at a dam that’s making odd noises. It’s like you know before it happens that the dam is about to split open and crumble apart, and you are going to be in an ‘oh shit’ moment that you can’t control. You will only be lucky to escape, but you can’t do a thing about it, except ride it out. And you’ll likely go under on the way. That’s Grant.”
“Oh.”
“And Wilson is bad off, like I said. It’s a game of wait and pray,” said Carli. “Even if they can get him detoxed, there’s no guarantee his liver or kidneys can function enough to sust
ain him. It’s going to be a long process. Or a very short one.”
“Sorry, Sister. This is definitely the good news report, huh?”
“I so wanted to let him sniff my perfume samples. I couldn’t wait to see his eyes light up, even if nothing much else could,” said Carli. “I really thought it would be a great way to reach him. Looks like his wine beat me to it.”
“Sorry to do this to you, Sister, but that client I just told you about is on the line here. Got to go.”
“Hugs,” said Carli.
“Back at you.”
Twenty-Eight
The last thing Carli expected to hear was the buzzer to her apartment ringing in the middle of the night. She ignored the first buzz, thinking it might be a prank, or the night doorman mistakenly hitting the wrong button. He was new to the job since she had gone out west. The buzzer sounded again, and several more times after. Maybe someone needed help.
“Yes?” she barked into the call box.
“There’s a man with a bike here to see you,” said the doorman.
“Can you put him on the line?” asked Carli. “He probably doesn’t have a phone.”
Carli heard some muffled conversation and then heard Grant loud and clear. “Carli? Did I wake you?”
“Grant, what are you doing here? Are you okay?”
“I’ve got my bike. I’m a man of my word. Let’s ride!”
Grant had arrived on Royal and sat with elbows resting patiently on the handlebars and with his chin in his hands. He beamed as Carli stepped outside.
“You’ve never been on the front of one of these before?” he asked.
Carli shook her head. “You know as well as any that I haven’t.”
“Not to worry. You’ll be comfy in no time. Nothing to do but relax and leave the driving to me.”
“No, Grant. Let’s go. Inside. We’re not riding right now.”
“Of course, we are. Get on.”
“No, Grant. It’s dangerous.” Carli reached for Royal and said, “Get off.” Grant dug his feet into the sidewalk, and clutched the brakes with both hands. Carli tried jostling him a bit. For every bit that Carli jostled Royal, Grant jostled back. In fact, he finally pulled Royal so hard he ripped the handlebars from Carli’s hands. Then he said, “Nice try ... Forget it.”
Carli fought with words another few minutes, but to no avail. As much as she wanted to return to bed, she knew she had to keep an eye on him. He was clearly losing control to impending mania. If she let him ride off alone, she would worry about him all night.
After a short discussion on how to ride, she cautiously backed herself onto the handlebars. Grant lifted one arm into the air, shouted, “And they’re off!” and started pedaling.
A few uncomfortable tilts taught powerful lessons on when and how to lean. Carli learned to keep a wide straddle so shoes stayed clear of spokes, and learned it was best to not block the driver’s view. Mostly, she heard the Delaney twins bickering loud and clear as they went weaving down Fifth Avenue.
Grant pedaled block after block. The ride was generally smooth, and Carli began to feel oddly comfortable. Before she knew it, they were all the way downtown, approaching Wall Street. She never took much notice of Manhattan’s hills, but, on more than one occasion, Grant had stood slightly to give the extra push needed to make the grade. She felt his breath on her neck.
When they slowed to a stop in the park at the island’s southern tip, Carli slid from the handlebars, grateful to have her feet touch the ground. The water surrounding Manhattan looked beautiful lapping the concrete edges of the city. Nearly as soon as they arrived, Grant was ready to leave. They rode northward again, block after block toward Central Park, and then turned south once more. He didn’t stop at her apartment. Instead, he said, “Missed something. We’re going back down.” Goosebumps inflated on Carli’s arms, even in the August evening air. She feared they were headed for the piers. Around two in the morning, Royal slowed to a stop at the entrance to the Staten Island Ferry. Grant parked his bike quickly and loudly.
“Look at it,” he said as they crossed the water by ferry. “The moon, I mean. It’s full tonight. Pregnant.”
Carli looked at the moon and then at Grant.
“Wanted to see the moon from the water,” he said. “And the moon on the water. It’s like shimmering silver!”
“Grant,” she started, knowing he needed help, and certain he had ditched his meds.
“Shh,” he said. “We’re alone. With the waves and the sea. Listen.” He was right. Not a single other person was with them in the passenger space on the ferry.
The ride across the water to Staten Island was followed immediately by a return trip to Manhattan. Grant pushed harder on the pedals as they road uptown. He talked as they rode, leaving huffs of breath to catch the wind in between his words.
“We have to keep going, Carli. It’s too beautiful to stop. We might get to Heaven this way. I think we have to ride all night.”
Grant’s energy was overwhelming. His words raced in tandem with his pedaling legs and spinning body. If he could have made his dear Royal fly, he would have. As it was, he came uncomfortably close.
When he finally returned her home, Carli convinced him to stay, knowing she was staring face-to-face with the manic side of bipolar. The couch would be fine for his sleeping purposes, and she didn’t want him out alone. The doctor was right. It was as though someone had flipped a loud, clanking light switch in storage, and had catapulted Grant into a radiant blare of white-lighted thought. He was heading back up. Only God knew how high or for how long.
Grant was interested to see the photos again. The ones of their family, including one of Henry and Bonaventura. Grant stared at that one for a long time. Then he straightened up and stared at Carli, seemingly deep in thought.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Grant looked at the collection of photographs, then slowly said, “I don’t know.”
“You remember Tura, don’t you?” she asked.
“The dog? Of course,” he said.
“What about the people?” she asked.
“I know them,” he said. “Yes. And I know you. It was good, wasn’t it?”
“Very good,” she said. She wished she could have it back.
By the time Carli awakened late morning, Grant and Royal were gone. Miraculously, she found him dining at St Mary’s, as his note had directed. He had already visited Wilson, Canada, and most everyone else. She knew he hadn’t slept and wondered what he had said to any of the street clan. He had a telltale odor of liquor. After lunch, and into the evening, they walked, as though desperately trying to walk off his jumbled thoughts.
Doctor Greenberg’s message had been plenty clear: send him up to see her or tell him to phone. Carli looked at Grant, wishing she could. Repeated requests were met with denial. Her heart wept. It was his decision to make.
For five tense days, Grant was a mass of energy, changing thoughts and direction, jumping curbs, leaping over benches, bumping people in parks, expounding the merits of many things – love and parakeets and goldfish—to anyone who would listen, including crowds at Times Square, families strolling in the park, and tourists standing by the piers. Oh, how he gravitated to the piers. Carli spent several sleepless nights in storage. By the start of the next week, he made marginal sense to anyone but himself, if he even did that. He continued to yearn for the piers. She continued to chaperon.
After two more long nights traveling and talking, Grant was ready to return to his storage room and stay awhile, or so she thought. Carli studied him carefully after he flopped upon his mattress. Somehow, she believed him. She returned to her own bed for four short hours of sleep and hoping for a chance to paint and make her visits in the morning. She had as good as neglected everyone all week, except Wilson, who was slowly improving. She made a point of walking Grant over to visit every day. Carli wondered how the rest were faring, especially Sarah and Vera.
As Carli prepared to walk at her pac
e, for the first time in days, Grant phoned, with a chilling request.
“Help! I need you. Fast.”
Carli found the door to his room open. Grant sat comfortably in his thinking chair. A partially eaten cake sat in the middle of his mattress. The cake in his hand was chocolate frosted, the one on his mattress was topped with vanilla. Another dozen cake boxes, at least, were neatly-arranged in four stacks beside him.
“Grant, what is this?”
“Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me.” He swung his fork through the air like a baton.
“It’s your birthday?” she asked. Apparently, Grant was born in August. Henry, she knew, was not.
“Was. Yesterday,” he said proudly. “Got a cake for each of my old college frat brothers. Delivered, even. Should have seen the delivery person! I need help getting these addressed and to the post office. Got one for you too. Vanilla or chocolate?”
Carli stiffened, hardly feeling relieved the emergency was about cakes. Mania had not receded after all. Dear God, help him.
Carli assisted with the wrapping and labeling of the goods. In the end, the cakes looked to be going out for delivery by special courier, but an extra tip slipped to Neuman at Cooper’s, while Grant showered, assured Carli the cakes wouldn’t get far, which was just fine. After, she walked with him, as slowly as she could, trying to keep him quiet – a difficult task.
A loud booming sound outside her doorway sent Carli bolting from bed and wondering if Grant and Royal had returned. Her next-door neighbor was moving out. With any luck, Grant was still in his room, but her call to him went unanswered.
The storage room door was locked. Grant was out. The guard – Neuman – confirmed it. “Left early this morning,” he said.
She should have stayed after addressing the cakes. Oh, Grant, please ..., she thought.
