Nobody, Somebody, Anybody

by Kelly McClorey

  Lo! in that house of misery

  A lady with a lamp I see

  Pass through the glimmering gloom,

  And flit from room to room.

  That house of misery—I knew it well. I’d lived there for years after college, amidst the glimmering gloom. Though I tried changing apartments and zip codes, the four walls around me stayed the same. For some reason, I was stubborn about finding the way out on my own, coming up with endless excuses not to follow the advice Peter had given me on my last day as a student. Then eventually, a day came, a quiet regular day with nothing unique about it, when I just happened to strike the right balance of mental clarity and emotional detachment, and found myself making a phone call.

  The psychologist sat in a noisy leather chair and tunneled his finger into his ear and said that everyone grieves in their own way, at their own pace. “Don’t worry about what you think you should be feeling or doing at any given point. You need to give yourself permission . . .” I had the urge to spit in his face. He’d simply assumed that I was like his other patients, that I’d shown kindness to my mother and now deserved to show kindness to myself. And he was forcing me to go along with it, to sit in the usual spot and respond to the usual questions, all of it so thoroughly civilized, it was grotesque. “Some people find it helpful to talk to the deceased, commune in whatever way makes sense to them,” he said. “Nothing shocks me anymore. I had one patient who believed his mother spoke to him through his eBay account, suggesting items to bid on—things that would only have meaning to the two of them. You might laugh, but I love it! I think it’s wonderful. Truly.” Behind him hung a display of oil-painted portraits in heavy frames, amateur, oversize, and mostly hideous. When he noticed me glaring, he said, “Original Delilah Thorpes,” then made a vague gesture toward the nameplate on his desk: Harold J. Thorpe, PhD. He cleared his throat. “My daughter,” he said. “She likes to do important women through history.” I spent the rest of our time together studying those paintings. Susan B. Anthony wearing what looked like a dead cat around her neck. Harriet Tubman with a deformed mouth. I imagined smashing the frames and holding a lighter to the canvases.

  After, I went home, sat on my floor, and waited for nightfall. I analyzed the shadows, tracked every sound. I licked my finger and crawled around trying to detect discrepancies in temperature, which I’d seen on a show about the supernatural. Finally I opened my laptop and typed in “eBay.” Then I snapped the laptop shut and kicked it across the floor. I vowed to never return for another appointment, and I didn’t. However, I’d gotten something out of that first session after all, the tiny germ that Peter must have known would reveal itself. The only nonhideous painting on Dr. Thorpe’s wall had featured a mystical woman in a white bonnet and apron, who I couldn’t get out of my mind. She looked almost familiar, a distant relative I couldn’t quite place. She held a lantern in her outstretched arm as though casting the light on something vital, something she intended to show me that lay just beyond the frame. I only had to follow her. Florence Nightingale, Lady with the Lamp, Angel of Crimea, 1820–1910 / “How very little can be done under the spirit of fear.” The next day I went out and bought a book.

  But now as I plodded through the woods, with Longfellow’s exaltations still lingering in the air, I felt embarrassed and insecure. How ridiculous to admire Florence Nightingale, to strive to be like her, when in reality you were just a chambermaid who had insulted another chambermaid and then tried to chase her home, you were nobody and had nothing, not even a college degree. Just a bogus certification card sweating in your pocket. Maybe I’d been fooling myself to think this treatment could ever work, but then, what was the alternative? Give up hope, settle for mediocrity, go around feeling sorry for myself?

  The narrow stream where I used to sit had developed a green slime along the edges. When I paused at it, a cat emerged from the trees, skinny with a nappy coat. She began sniffing my legs. “Get lost,” I said. It looked like she had suffered some cruelty, but I’d already absorbed so much of the world’s dust, I couldn’t bear to take in any of its cats on top of it. I moved along, aware of the cat padding behind me. “Get lost,” I said again, more forceful this time, and kicked my foot in her direction.

  When I first moved into Gary’s in-law apartment, there had been an orange cat that would climb up the stairs and paw at my door. I called him Sesame Seed because when I plucked one off the side of my bagel, he seemed to like it. He wore a little bell around his neck, so I knew he had a home, probably with a big affectionate family who loved to stroke his ears and feed him sardine-flavored treats and dangle pouches of catnip, and yet he still chose to come and visit me, every day for weeks. He would tuck into my lap and clean himself, and we’d sit at the window, where he’d twitch at every leaf and bird. I began to expect him, and when I heard his bell, I’d open the door and get a little dish of water ready and a pinch of cheese or whatever was in my refrigerator. When I had to go out for work or an errand, I’d race back, worried he might be waiting, and all the way home, I’d picture his little pink nose and whiskers and have to fight the smile from getting too big on my face. Then one day he didn’t come. He gave no warning signs. I kept the door open all day and night and into the next day, when I finally went out and hunted around the neighborhood, calling, “Sesame Seed, Sesame Seed,” but not too loudly in case someone should question me. For weeks I’d rush outside every time I heard a jingle, only to find a dog on a leash, or a bicycle, or the coins in my own pocket. One of the neighbors put up a wind chime, and the sound would grow roots in my ears, especially when I lay in bed at night. No matter what, I couldn’t kill the last tiny bud of hope. But it was like Sesame Seed had dissolved into thin air. And I worked hard not to resent him but to be thankful for the time we’d had.

  The scraggly cat purred and rammed her face into my shinbone until I conceded. I combed my fingers through her coat, the least I could do. She just kept purring and rubbing against me, and I couldn’t deny that it felt nice. I’d let her follow me a while.

  By the time we reached the edge of the woods, her fur had fluffed up a bit and didn’t look quite so mangy. She let out a heartbreaking cry, and I got an idea. I gathered her up in my arms. She curled her tail and fit nicely there, and we trekked on toward home. Her little heart beat furiously. Florence Nightingale first heard her calling after saving the life of a sheepdog with a wounded leg when she was seventeen. Years later, she rescued a baby owl who became her beloved pet, Athena.

  The cat bristled when we passed a man spraying his window boxes. To soothe her, I rubbed the pads of her toes and told her how the largest artery inside the body, the aorta, was approximately the size of a garden hose. When we came to 8 Magnolia Drive, I let her paw the raspberry bushes while I popped one in my mouth, overwhelmed by how sublime it tasted and how thirsty and hungry I was. When we finally made it home, I knocked on Gary’s door, worn out but trying to stay strong for her, scratching her neck and whispering “Look cute” into her soft ear.

  He lifted a corner of his new white curtains before opening the door. “Amy,” he said. “And . . . a cat.”

  “I know I canceled for tonight. But then I had a great idea. To help with everything you’ve been going through. You know how you’ve been really stressed out? Well, a lot of studies have shown that pets can be a great stress reliever. It’s physiological, even just a few minutes can bring your blood pressure down. When I was in college, they used to bring dogs to campus at finals time, to help the students relax. But cats are a lot less of a commitment. They basically take care of themselves. Plus, isn’t she cute?” I made her paw wave.

  “Huh. A cat. Jeez, I don’t know.” As he leaned in to scrutinize her, she let out a wild meow, making him jump and laugh. He gradually brought one finger toward her nose and she licked the end of it. “That’s nice.” He patted her head.

  “Hear that? She’s purring.”

  “I guess it could be good, for when Irina gets here. It’ll be a stressful time f
or her too. And she’ll probably be home alone a lot, especially at first. She might get lonely. Maybe it’s not a bad idea.”

  The cat leapt out of my arms and scooted through Gary’s legs, right into his house. “Look at that,” he said. She trotted through his living room toward the kitchen.

  “Looks like she made the decision for you,” I said, relieved by her enthusiasm.

  We watched her for a moment in silence, and then he cleared his throat. “If you want, I was about to have dessert. You could come in and have some.”

  “Okay.” I got the impression he wasn’t really in the mood for company, that he was doing me a favor, so I promised myself I’d leave immediately after dessert.

  Gary prepared brownie sundaes with caramel sauce crisscrossed over the top, then he poured the melted ice cream from the bottom of the carton into a shallow bowl and set it on the floor. The cat lapped it up. “I’ll have to get some cat food tomorrow,” he said.

  “And a litter box.” The caramel sauce tasted sickly sweet, but I gobbled it up anyway. We sat in the two original chairs that had come with the kitchen table, while the third one we’d purchased stayed in its box, propped against the wall.

  “How’s the brownie? I made them. Just from a box.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “I like the walnuts.”

  As we ate, the cat snaked around our feet and nuzzled the legs of our chairs. When she got sick of that, she sank her nails into the notches of the screen door then plucked them out, one paw at a time, so the door rumbled and shook. She became fixated on the motion, repeating it again and again, and the noise called attention to the comfortable silence that had settled between us. I felt astounded by my luck, to have a friend to be silent with. But then the cat would not quit. The noise became oppressive and our happy silence regressed into its more familiar form, an obstacle that had to be surmounted. “Maybe we should let her out into the yard for a few minutes,” I said.

  “I was thinking she should be an indoor cat.”

  “Why?”

  “I just thought, if Irina’s stuck at home while the cat goes out, she might feel . . . I don’t know.” He stabbed his spoon into his bowl, mashing everything together. “I guess it just seems safer, all around.”

  I had envisioned us sharing custody—the cat coming for regular visits, padding freely from his house up to my apartment and back again—but I didn’t feel right suggesting that now. Anyway, that kind of arrangement might just develop naturally over time. “Then you won’t have to worry about her getting hit by a car or anything like that,” I said.

  “Exactly.” As he took a bite, I caught a flash of his impeccable front teeth, not one speck of brownie. “It was nice of you to think of me, with the cat. Sorry if I seem a little out of it. I had this email from Irina and, well, you know how it can be. It just gets harder the longer we’re apart. But hopefully she’ll get here soon, then you won’t have to put up with my craziness anymore.”

  He meant it to be kind, but I felt a bit deflated. The cat continued her scratching. “She certainly has stamina,” Gary said.

  “We should give her a name. I like Athena. But that’s just one idea.”

  He brought our dishes to the sink, nearly tripping over the bowl he’d set down for the cat. “I think I’ll wait and let Irina decide.” He turned on the faucet.

  “Yeah,” I said over the rush of water. “I guess we should wait and let Irina decide.”

  My front door jammed as I pushed it open. Something thick had been dropped through the mail slot—a magazine. The cover had a staged photograph of two medical professionals kneeling by a patient, one performing chest compressions while the other attached an automated external defibrillator. “EMS Monthly” was printed across the top in block letters, and under it: “Highlighting News, Stories, and Innovations from the Field of Emergency Medical Services.” EMS Monthly? I must have gotten up one night, half dreaming, and ordered it online, maybe with the idea of incorporating it into the third phase of my treatment. I had never done anything half dreaming before, but perhaps it was evidence that my obecalp had soaked into my subconscious as hoped. I peeled open the plastic sleeve, and a white slip of paper fell out.

  * * *

  You’ve been gifted a year subscription!

  TO: Amy

  FROM: Proud Dad

  MESSAGE: Thought this might be useful for an up-and-coming EMT like yourself! We love you & we’re so proud. Hope to see you soon.

  * * *

  I had the urge to press the paper to my cheek and hold it there. When I brought it down, I checked to make sure the words were still there as I remembered them. I walked to the refrigerator with the paper out in front of me, making it wave like a flag. I hung it next to my congratulations letter and read them both aloud once, twice, three times. FROM: Proud Dad.

  I sat in bed with the magazine, gliding my finger over the pages. This was real, all of it. An up-and-coming EMT like myself. Just like everyone else opening this magazine, flipping through these same articles. I read about hazmat disasters, pediatric seizures, prehospital blood transfusions. When I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore, I rolled it up and slept with it in the crook of my arm like a teddy bear.

  Eight

  The regatta began the same day my package for Phase III was scheduled to arrive. I’d spent $95.43 before tax, the biggest purchase I’d made in months aside from rent, enough to qualify for free shipping and to represent the kind of significant investment needed for a successful obecalp treatment: $55.49 for dark blue pants featuring cargo pockets with multiple compartments and straps, double-faced knees, and a stain-release fabric finish; $34.99 for a khaki button-down shirt with chest pockets, a mesh ventilation panel, and reflective trim; and just $4.95 for a regulation Massachusetts EMT patch, no questions asked. It was amazing what you could find for sale online with just a quick search. I’d been tracking the package as it made its way from Oregon, jumping to a new state every day.

  The weather report predicted this would be the hottest day of the summer so far, but the early hour still had a hint of crispness, and as I hustled to work, the birds were active and the houses had a soft glow. Doug had hired a private company to help with the event. They’d set up white tents on the lawn outside the clubhouse, and inside them a team of employees with tucked-in shirts were busy dressing tables in thick white cloths and unloading goods from a van parked on the grass. The parking lot was filling up with shiny cars, and groups of wealthy, boat-loving people socialized on the clubhouse deck, drinking coffee and wearing pale-colored clothes. Valerie didn’t appear to be among them. Passing the kitchen, I could feel the dizzy motion of the cooks inside as they stirred and baked and iced.

  “Amy!” Doug called. He’d wheeled his chair to the door of his office. He removed a toothpick from between his teeth and pointed it at me. I’d been avoiding him since rummaging through his office for the member directory, and now my heartbeat quickened. He pedaled himself backward and tapped the toothpick on his desk. “I have a mission for you, should you choose to accept. We’ve got a flower order waiting. All paid for, but Kurt forgot to request delivery. Today of all days! You’ve got a car, right?”

  He had selected me for this mission, which meant he still considered me just as worthy and dependable as ever, and I felt so relieved that I forgot to say no, I didn’t have a car, and he interpreted my silence as an answer.

  “You’re a lifesaver.” He handed over a receipt with the shop’s information and the order number. “Remember, if you’re swarmed by mosquitoes, swat to kill.” He was still laughing about that as I ducked out of his office.

  Somehow in the course of those few minutes, the temperature had skyrocketed, as had the number of people in the parking lot. I wove through them, happy to leave the pandemonium behind, though I couldn’t escape the humidity pressing in from all sides. The flower shop was only a mile away, and if I hurried, Doug would never suspect anything. He would be occupied with other preparations for the regatta, and I
could always say there had been a long line or a minor issue with the order. But I hated to lie! If the order was too bulky or heavy to carry, I’d have to weigh my options: I could make several trips, running all the way back to the shop, or I could take only what I was able to carry and blame the discrepancy on the florist, although that was a slimy thing to do, and he might call and demand a refund. I focused on maintaining a brisk pace and trying to stay optimistic.

  The order was waiting on the floor, a tag on it that read “Salters Cove Yacht Club.” I wanted to cheer—it was a large crate, but I would easily be able to fit my arms around it, and I basked in my good fortune as I presented the receipt to the cashier. When she asked if I wanted a hand getting it to my car, I declined firmly, then squatted to hug the crate. It had more weight than expected. I braced myself and doubled my efforts, trying not to distort my face since I could feel her eyes on me, judging whether to intervene, in which case I’d have to lead her out to some stranger’s car and pretend to search my pockets for the keys. “Have a nice day!” I called.

  I stumbled out of view of the shop and adjusted the crate against my hip. If I put it down, there was a chance I wouldn’t be able to lift it again, so I kept moving, inching my feet forward, my hands turning slippery with sweat. I recited my congratulations letter by heart, just in my head so as not to sacrifice the breath. I was Amy Hanley, nationally certified emergency medical technician, Registry No. E4068211. I could handle anything. When it isn’t feasible to carry a patient, EMTs use an emergency drag, and perhaps I could apply that here. But the shoulder and ankle drags would only work if the crate had limbs, and the blanket drag required a strip of fabric. During training, I used to long for the chance to execute a real-life firefighter carry: to drape a patient’s body over my shoulder and experience, in the most tangible way, the gravity of my role in the world. Now, with my knees wavering and the sun throbbing on my head, I ridiculed myself for being so foolish.