by JJ Lamb
Vasquez nodded, but never looked at the page.
“And look at his hemoglobin!” She challenged him with her eyes. He stood there, erect, motionless, blank-eyed. “Mr. Vasquez, at the risk of being rude, I don't think you fully understand the danger Carl Chapman's in.”
He stared back at her, only a hint of his ever-ready smile still visible at the corners of his mouth.
“This man's bone marrow is totally suppressed.”
Vasquez' eyes dropped to watch Gina's fingers tap insistently on the lab reports. He remained silent.
“Look!” she said, poking repeatedly at the results of the damning blood tests. “Can't you understand? He doesn't have enough reds ... his cells are becoming hypoxic ... they lack oxygen ... without his whites ... he can't fight off the simplest infection.” She knew she was losing control, but couldn't stop. “He needs that bone marrow. Now!”
I know all of that, Ms. Mazzio.”
“Well, so does Chapman.” Gina closed the chart with a loud clack. “I won't lie to him.”
“And if Dr. Kessler insists you withhold the information?” “I doubt he would do that. He doesn't make a habit of deceiving his patients.”
“What if he orders you not to?”
Gina looked at the administrator; her chin lifted, her eyes cut through him.
“Mr. Vasquez, that man is my patient, too. We've been through terrible times together.” She lowered the chart and rested it decisively against her hip. “I've watched him vomit ... no, puke ... puke his brains out ... puke until I thought there couldn't possibly be anything left in him. And guess what? I was wrong.”
The administrator winced at her words, but said nothing.
“I've watched him struggle, bully himself to find that extra bit of energy just to get to the bathroom ... and end up failing. For God's sake, we've cried together—”
“—Ms. Mazzio!”
Gina held up a hand. “Please ... I will not lie to that man.”
* * *
The air swirled around Gina, blowing contaminants away from her body and clothing, pushing them forcefully back through the door as it swooshed closed behind her.
The dramatic entry into the reverse isolation unit usually reminded her of just how much she enjoyed her chosen specialty. She'd been a Med/Surg nurse until Ridgewood's Oncology Department expanded its treatments to include an autologous bone marrow transplant program. The procedure fascinated her—it allowed patients to donate their own marrow for future use, countering the marrow-destroying effects of high dosage, cancer-killing chemo. She'd never been uncomfortable with her decision to change specialties until today.
As she entered the positive-pressure room, her skin began to itch under the roughness of her face mask. She twitched her nose and mouth back and forth.
“Sorry I took so long, Carl.”
Chapman smiled at her. “Thought you blasted off to Mexico without me.”
She shook her head, sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. Avoiding his eyes, she reached over and gently took his hand—it was abnormally cold. She ran a thumb over the back of his hand, noting that his skin was paler today, the nail beds drained bloodless.
“What's the matter, Gina?”
She looked at his gaunt face, then into his sunken eyes.
“My bone marrow's gone, isn't it?” He said it calmly, fatalistically.
Her heart raced in response, thumping so loudly it boomed in her ears. She clutched his hand. “Who told you that?”
He gave her a weak shrug.
“Look, it's misplaced, not gone.” She stared intently at him. “They'll find it soon.”
He shook his head slowly back and forth. A sad smile formed as he stared at a picture of his parents on the bedside table. There was no doubt about the familial relationship between father and son—the same soft blue eyes, fair skin.
“You know, I was totally devastated when they told me I had testicular cancer,” he said. “It was so damn unexpected ... it hit me like a bomb.”
Gina gently touched his arm, squeezed his hand.
“But Dr. Kessler has been so encouraging,” he continued. “He said the statistics were in my favor—the bone marrow was just supposed to be a backup.” He swallowed hard and wiped at his eyes. “There's no way he could have known the chemo would knock me down quicker than most people ...”
“Carl, they'll find the marrow.”
“Everything's changed ... so different.”
“You've got to have faith. They will find it!”
“God, how I regret the way I indulged myself before this happened, and I do mean indulged—going to all the right places, hanging out with all the right people, wearing all the right clothes, having all the right jobs.” He laughed quietly. “Pretty damn stupid, don't you think?”
“Carl, please!” Gina stroked his cheek with the back of her fingers.
“Have you ever really looked at the sky, Gina?”
She tried to smile, was sure she failed.
“Right ... I never did either until this monster landed between my legs.” He squeezed her hand tightly, his eyes glinted. “Did you know the sky isn't really blue or pink? It's almost like crystal ... you can see through it, enter it; if you let your mind take the leap, you're free ... free of our atmosphere ... free of our world ... free in the universe.”
“Carl, you're not listening: we'll find your bone marrow.”
“Poor little Gina. You just don't understand that there are worse things than death—personal humiliation, family destitution ...” He shifted and adjusted the bed so he sat up even taller.
“Stop it, Carl! We will find—”
“God damn it, Gina, will you stop saying that? You're not going to find it. It's gone!”
“How can you be so sure?”
His voice now fell to a whisper: “I can't tell you. I would if I could, but ...” He began to cough.
She poured water into a glass. When she handed it to him, his frail hand shook and was barely able to hold the weight. He took a sip and gave it back to her.
“I know you want to be helpful, but I'd like to be alone for a while ... I need time to think.”
“Talk to me, Carl. What's going on in that head of yours?”
A ragged sigh escaped his lips. “I'm just so tired.” He reached out to touch her cheek. “I suppose all of your patients fall desperately in love with those beautiful brown eyes.”
“Every one of them.”
“We would have been perfect together ... even the same age...”His chin dropped to his chest.
She pressed the button to lower the bed and puffed up his pillows. “I'll come back in a little while. You know where the buzzer is if you need me before then.”
As she headed for the door, he said: “I wish I'd met you ten years ago.”
“You say that to all the nurses.” She blew him a kiss and stepped into the corridor.
* * *
As Gina headed for the nursing station, still looking back at Carl Chapman's room, she collided with Kessler.
“You didn't tell Carl about his marrow, did you?”
“I didn't have to. He already knew.”
He leaned heavily against the wall, closed his eyes. “God, this is awful.”
“What are we going to do with him?”
“I don't know. I can only hope the marrow will turn up in time.” He glanced down at the chart in his hand. “Had this gut feeling about the Chapman right from the beginning. Didn't even blast him as hard as I normally do. Something told me his kidneys wouldn't hold up to the chemo. And when his hearing started to go...”
“It's not your fault the marrow's missing.”
“You know I always stick with the protocol, Gina. Got to stick with the protocols. Too easy to play God with these people, especially when you're pushing poisons. Dammit, I even backed off on the chemo.”
“Mark, it's been a tough one to call right from the beginning. Seems anything that could go wrong, has.”
“That's why I insisted on the autologous bone marrow. That little voice inside kept warning he was going to need it. Dammit! Only thirty-five years old ... the guy's as good as dead.”
“That's what's so strange,” she said. “He seems to know that. I'm telling you, Mark, he knew his marrow was missing before I ever said a word.”
Kessler shook his head and straightened his thin frame as if trying to realign all the parts. He looked more like a poet than an oncologist. “I've just been down to the lab,” he said. “Checked their logs; checked their specimens. Everything's in perfect order. All the paper work says Chapman's marrow is there. But it isn't. The slot's empty. It really is gone.”
They walked slowly over to the lounge behind the nursing station. Gina poured them black coffee. Kessler collapsed into a worn, vinyl-upholstered chair.
“I still say, there's no way Chapman could have known his marrow was missing,” Gina said, handing Kessler a steaming cup before sitting down next to him.
“Damn it, Gina, forget that. The point is, if the lab doesn't find his marrow, we're going to lose him.”
Chapter 4
Gina had just slipped into a new beige skirt when the apartment doorbell rang. She pirouetted in front of the mirror, straightened the collar of the contrasting blue silk blouse, and cinched her belt an extra notch. Only then did she respond to the insistent buzzing.
Covering her ears and shaking her head, she hurried down the hallway and did a rapid toe dance of impatience as she opened the door a crack and peeked out: Harry Lucke tousled his bushy black hair, crossed his blue eyes and stuck out his tongue at her. He stuck a long-stemmed red rose between his teeth and grinned, finger poised over the button.
“Harry, if you touch that bell one more time, you're a dead man.”
As she unchained the door he pushed through, grabbed her in his arms.
“You're so lucky, Gina Mazzio ... luckiest woman in the world.” He twirled her around.
“I am?”
“I just signed an extended twelve-week contract for ICU,” he said, dragging her toward the kitchen. He snagged a chrome-legged footstool with one toe, stepped up on it so he was now a couple of inches taller than she. He bowed and presented the rose with a flourish.
“Will you get down from there? You make me feel like some kind of giant.”
“Aren't you surprised?”
“So who was worried?” She smelled the rose and carried it across the messy kitchen; onion and garlic skins danced across the counter with the sudden rush of her movements. As water bubbled to the top of a crystal bud vase, she softly whistled a Mozart rondo and sniffed the rose again. After setting the flower in the center of the dining room table, she said
“Besides, maybe I was looking forward to some peace and quiet.”When she turned back to him, the humor and sparkle had faded from his eyes.
“Light-footed, as always, Mazzio,” he said, sitting down dejectedly on the sofa. “No commitments, right?”
“Don't rattle my chain, Nurse Lucke. I've had a rough day.”
“And don't give me that Nurse Lucke crap. You only do it to neuter me, especially when you feel trapped.” His eyes burned into hers. “You know damn well how I feel about nursing—I love it almost as much as I love you. What I don't love are the idiotic games we play.”
She spun around and dashed back to the kitchen, her teeth digging into the soft flesh of her lower lip. She wished he would leave their relationship alone. Why all this emphasis on commitment? She was already familiar with that game. It doesn't work unless both sides are involved, which Dominick, her ex-husband, hadn't been.
She stirred the marinara sauce in the heavy iron skillet with short, rapid strokes. Why wouldn't Harry stop prodding her; backing her into a corner? As the steam from the roiling pasta drifted around the kitchen and the aroma of the Italian sauce soothed her, she forced herself to turn back to Harry, talking with exaggerated hand motions:
“We gonna fighta before we eatta my home-made tortellini?” She poured two glasses of chianti with a trembling hand.
“Why is it whenever we get into it, you give me your New York Italian act?”
“Thatsa my home.”
“Well, what the hell are you doing here then?”
“You know goddam well why I'm here, Harry Lucke.”
She followed as he moved to the window and gazed four stories below at the late-evening pedestrians. One moment they were highlighted by the streetlights, next they were plunged into wavy umber shadows.
“Yeah, I know. You're here running away from your bastard of an ex-.” He continued to look out the window.
Gina slumped against him. “I put up with his insane rages and physical cruelty for a long time. I'm not going to risk making that kind of mistake again.”
Harry turned away from the window and took her into his arms, gave her a sad smile.
“Gina, it's so hard to tell you exactly how I feel ... I just want you to love me ... that's all. When you push me away, I go crazy.” He ran his fingers through her soft curly hair, outlined the fullness of her lips with a fingertip. “You know, in the unit they call me the miracle man: I can work wonders with collapsing veins, clogged ventilators. Dying patients cross back over the line just because I'm there. But with you ... I feel like a small, silly man.”
She kissed him on the cheek. “Harry, it's not you. There's nothing silly about you. I'm just not ready yet. It's hard to make the kind of commitment you deserve when I'm always looking over my shoulder. Remember, he said he'd kill me if I divorced him ... and I did.”
“But it's been two years, Mazzio. It's time to get on with your life. That part of it is really over.”
* * *
Gina looked pensively at the other end of the table. Candlelight flickered across Harry's face, softening the array of scars he'd collected in street fights as a kid. She knew much of their attraction was sparked by their similar backgrounds. They'd both grown up in tough neighborhoods, developing rough edges that often needed smoothing. While Harry had survived to become a gentle creature, sweet and loving, her marriage had left her hardened with even more hurt and anger.
Their plates overflowed with homemade pasta; fresh parmesan complemented the hot marinara sauce; and a basket of fresh sourdough sat in the middle of the table.
“I've had one of the worst days of my life, Harry, and I shouldn't take it out on you,” she said, shaking her head. Then she told him about Carl Chapman.
“Poor bastard!”
“I know. I can't stop thinking about him.” She toyed with the circles of cheese tortellini.
“They might find the marrow yet.” He tore his bread into smaller and smaller pieces.
“I keep telling myself that, but I don't really believe it.”
“How's Kessler taking it?”
“Pretty badly. Blames himself for letting Chapman's marrow to dry up.”
“It's not his fault, is it? And from what you've told me, he seems to be a very conscientious person.”
“He is. He's just never been able to detach himself like most of the other docs; never learned to distance himself.”
“Sounds like that's your problem, too.”
She nodded slowly. “Maybe so. But, Harry, you've got to understand, here's this young guy ... thirty-five years old ... not a prayer ... finished.”
“They can stall it with transfusions. Maybe it'll buy some time, enough time to find his marrow.
They both picked at their food.
“It was crazy,” she said finally, jabbing the tines of her fork harshly into the tablecloth.
“It goes with the territory. It's part of what we do.”
“I don't mean that.” She took a large sip of wine and topped off the glass from the bottle. “Chapman knew his marrow was gone before I even told him. In fact, he told me.”
Harry pierced a fragment of pasta with his fork, chewed it slowly. “Intuition, probably.”
“Bullshit!” She pushed her chair away from t
he table in disgust and stared at a diminutive version of Michelangelo's DAVID. The milky marble piece rested on a pedestal next to her second-hand loveseat. Her eyes slid across the swelling of muscles—arms, chest, thighs. “Harry, he just didn't act normal.”
“What do you expect from the guy? He isn't normal.”
She planted both palms on the table, and leaned toward him. “Damn it, Lucke, I'll tell you what I expect!” Her face was scarlet, the corners of her eyes teared. “I expect rage, pure and absolute rage! I might even settle for disbelief ... but not stoicism. Carl Chapman's been a fighter, why the sudden change?”
Harry's craggy face drooped in sadness as he rounded the table to encircle Gina in his arms. She pounded her fists gently on his shoulders, rush after rush of salty tears stained his shirt.
Chapter 5
Frank Nellis scrutinized the woman: sallow skin, hunched shoulders, arms crossed over her boobs. Nothing but a lifeless, droopy, used up bimbo. A bimbo with frightened rabbit eyes.
There’s something going on in that pea brain of yours, isn’t there, little girl?
He willed her eyes to meet his, demanded she look at him. There was no response.
“Darlin', you're awful quiet,” he accused. “Haven't said a word since you came home.”
She responded with a watery smile, bit off a chunk of a large Snickers bar, and chewed mechanically. She half turned and focused on him, eyes narrowed. She probed him in a speculative way, setting off a string of firecrackers in his brain.
Cunt’s going to back out on me!
“Why don't I run a nice warm bath for you, darling ... help you relax,” he said sweetly.
She straightened, fluffed her hair, ran her fingertips tentatively across the delicate skin around her right eye. The shiner had yellowed except for one dark spot over the eyelid, like a clown with only half her makeup on. She touched the eye again, winced, and nodded.
When the tub was filled, he poured a capful of her favorite scented bath oil into the water and called to her. The room was warm and steamy when she entered. He was in the tub, waiting. She stood by the sink, looking timidly at him.