He told her about the oxygen canister running out. ‘He could have died last night. I know he’s going to die pretty soon, but I don’t want my screwing up to be the reason.’
‘We all make mistakes,’ she said sympathetically. ‘Anyway, it’s not on you. Ricardo should have checked before he left for the night. He’s been trained to do this, you haven’t.’ She took a sip of the coffee he offered her. ‘Ricardo’s having problems at home. His wife has left him,’ she confided. ‘I see it all the time. The stress from doing this work is debilitating. It can mess up your mind, make you forgetful. I’ll talk to him about paying closer attention.’
‘Thanks,’ Wycliff said gratefully. He looked at her, sitting across from him, drinking her coffee. ‘You live this day in and day out. How do you maintain?’
‘The best I can. It’s messed up more than one relationship for me, that’s for sure.’
‘Then why do you do it?’
‘Because it’s my job. Because my patients need me. It feels good to be needed, even if it hurts like hell sometimes.’
There really are good people in this world, Wycliff thought, as he looked at her kind face. He wouldn’t switch places with this woman for all the money in the world, but he admired people like her. Amelia fit into that category, too. It had been less than two days since they had last been together, but he missed her. He would find a way to see her as soon as possible, even if it meant driving across the city to her hospital so they could be together while she was on a break.
‘Well, thank you,’ he said. ‘I really appreciate everything you’re doing.’
‘You are paying me,’ she reminded him, deflecting his praise.
‘It isn’t enough.’
‘So give me a raise.’ She smiled. ‘The doctor will be here this afternoon. I’ll try to make it back so we’re all in synch.’ She picked up her bag. ‘Don’t beat yourself up over what happened. No one’s perfect.’
If only you knew.
The doctor, an ER resident wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt who volunteered for hospice, showed up at four, an hour past the appointed time, hassled and frazzled. ‘Sorry I’m late. My last patient went into full-on cardiac arrest. We had to call 911. It was touch and go, for real.’
‘What happened to him?’ Wycliff asked anxiously. He had a fear of something like that occurring to Billy, especially after last night’s near-disaster.
‘It was a woman, and I don’t know,’ the doctor answered, taking his instruments out of his bag. ‘Once they take them away they’re out of my hands. Let’s have a look at this puppy.’
Sadie, who had been waiting patiently with Wycliff for over an hour, helped the doctor prop Billy up. Ricardo wasn’t there; he had taken a pass again, pleading more family problems. ‘I’ll have a replacement tomorrow,’ Sadie told Wycliff, clearly annoyed. ‘I understand why he’s bailing out, but he can’t leave you in the lurch. I’ll get someone good, even if I have to do it myself.’
‘It’s okay,’ Wycliff reassured her. ‘I’m fine, being here.’
Billy sat vertically against his pillows, his pajama top open, exposing his emaciated torso. His ribs were protruding. You could play the xylophone on them, Wycliff thought, they were so prominent in his withered, blotchy chest. The doctor poked and prodded, listened to Billy’s insides with his stethoscope, and checked all his vital signs.
‘How’s he eating?’ he asked Wycliff, as if Billy wasn’t there. To Billy, he said, ‘I can’t ask you, soldier, you’ll bullshit me. You’re too damn tough for your own good.’
Billy mustered a smile. ‘That’s why I’m still alive, sawbones.’
‘Stay that way. So about his eating?’
‘He’s doing pretty good,’ Wycliff told him. ‘He had pizza the other night.’ He didn’t tell the doctor that Billy had thrown it up afterwards.
‘Perfect,’ the doctor deadpanned. ‘Nothing better for clogging the arteries.’
‘It was one time,’ Wycliff said defensively. ‘He’s got to live.’ Immediately, he regretted his phrasing.
‘That’s the point,’ the doctor said. ‘Which is why eating that garbage is not advisable.’
‘We won’t do it again. Right, Billy?’ He looked at his brother for confirmation.
Billy’s breathing was fast and shallow. ‘Wrong,’ he gasped. ‘Pizza and wine every night. And ice cream. With hot fudge.’
‘It’s your life,’ the doctor replied matter-of-factly. ‘Do what you want with it, I’m not going to stop you. But if you do want to live longer, and you can, be sensible.’
Billy slumped back into his pillows. ‘I know.’
The doctor patted him on the shoulder. ‘Hang in there, man. You’re doing good.’ He gave Wycliff an eye roll indicating that he wanted to talk to him outside of Billy’s hearing.
‘I’ll walk you out,’ Wycliff told the doctor for Billy’s benefit. Leaving Sadie at his brother’s bedside, he followed the doctor out of the room, into the kitchen.
‘There’s fluid building up in his lungs,’ the doctor told Wycliff, keeping his voice low so he wouldn’t be overheard. ‘He’s lost significant breathing capacity since I last saw him. I’m worried about pneumonia. If he gets that, we’re going to lose him sooner than expected.’
Wycliff felt the shame of his neglect course through his body, even though he knew that no matter what, Billy wasn’t going to hang on much longer. Hearing the doctor say it out loud, though, jolted him. ‘How much time does he have?’
‘If his condition doesn’t get any worse, a month or two. Three is probably the outside limit.’ He sighed, a groan from the gut. ‘We’re heading for the finish line, my friend. You have to come to grips with that.’
Wycliff started shaking. ‘Shit,’ he cursed.
‘Is he in pain?’ the doctor asked.
‘On and off.’
‘I’ll increase his pain medication dosage. That’s the last thing we want, for him to be in pain.’
‘Good,’ Wycliff said dully.
The doctor stood up. ‘It’s always harder on the ones who are left behind.’
Wycliff, pinned to his chair by emotional paralysis, shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘It’s true,’ the doctor said emphatically. He laid a compassionate hand on Wycliff’s shoulder. ‘You have each other. That’s huge. It’s lousy to die alone. Your brother isn’t going to. You can both take strength from that.’
He wasn’t going anywhere tonight. Even if Ricardo had shown up, which he hadn’t, he needed to be here, close to his brother, making sure there weren’t any more screw-ups. He left messages for Charlotte and Amelia, to let them know. He instructed Charlotte not to return the call, that he was too busy taking care of his brother and would call her when he had some breathing room. He didn’t leave that message for Amelia. He hoped she would call him back.
Two weeks, three months, any time between: his brother was going to die, and when he did, the life he, Wycliff, was living, was going to come crashing to an end. What would he do, where would he go? For the past few weeks, since he had forced his way into Billy’s life, he had been in high cotton. Nice pad (free of charge), cool car, not one but two lovers, money in his pocket from his car-theft exploit. Not to mention his personal rebirth, both physically, courtesy of Charlotte, and emotionally, because of how his relationship with Billy had changed. With Amelia, too. He was a different, nicer person when he was with her. Taking care of Billy had forced him to change his harsh ways for the better, and it was rubbing off on how he was with other people, especially her. It felt good to be nice to her. He sure as hell didn’t want to hurt her. Of course, he was living a complete lie: who he was, what he did, his background, basically everything. Sooner or later the truth of who he was would rise to the surface. You can fake the past for a while, but you can’t hide it forever. He had tried to do that at various times in his life, and it had always blown up in his face. Especially nowadays, with the Internet and all the other high-tech ways of searching peo
ple out, you couldn’t kill an old life and start a new one from scratch. Even people in the government’s witness-protection programs left trails now. You can run, but you can’t hide, an old con had once warned him. The con told him Joe Louis, the famous boxer, had said that. It was true. He couldn’t hide.
He could hear Billy in his hospital bed in the living room, breathing through his oxygen mask. Even breathing, the most fundamental act of life, was almost too hard for the poor bastard now.
That reality jerked him back to the here and now. He had a dying man on his hands. That was plenty to deal with.
He filled a tumbler with Maker’s Mark and ice and went outside to the back patio, leaving the door open so he could hear if there were any changes in his brother’s breathing. It was so pleasant here, so peaceful. He sipped his bourbon. There’s nothing permanent in life. But it sure would be nice if the temporary of now could go on longer.
SIXTEEN
Gus Levine, Billy’s lawyer, arrived at nine thirty. Levine was a portly man in his fifties, dressed in a double-breasted suit and a bow tie. He was accompanied by his assistant, a tall, horse-faced woman with a sour expression. Billy had called Levine without telling Wycliff. Wycliff was miffed that he hadn’t been notified, because as Billy’s legal caretaker (for medical reasons, but not financial) he felt he should be in on everything. But he had to acknowledge that Billy had the right to handle his affairs himself as long as he was mentally sharp, which he was, that wasn’t in dispute. So after he and Levine exchanged awkward introductions, and Levine started taking documents out of his briefcase and laying them out at the side of Billy’s bed, he excused himself and took his coffee outside.
The lawyer showing up was a shot in the gut. One thing Wycliff had learned about his brother: the man did not bullshit himself. He knew the end was near and he was making sure his bases were covered, that all the legal stuff was nailed down and squared away. Who got the house, who got his money, all of it. How long did he have here after Billy died, he wondered? Weeks? Days? Twenty-four hours and don’t let the door hit you on the ass on your way out?
The daydreaming was over. It was time to face reality.
‘Can we talk?’
Wycliff, startled, turned around. Levine was standing in the doorway.
‘Sure.’ He pushed up from his deck chair and followed the lawyer inside.
They sat across from each other at the kitchen table. The assistant wasn’t present; she was waiting outside, in the passenger seat of Levine’s Mercedes.
‘Your brother is very grateful for everything you’ve done for him,’ Levine told Wycliff. ‘He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.’ He paused, then added somberly, ‘He might not even be alive. You’ve helped raise his spirits.’
That was a heavy load to contemplate. ‘I did what had to be done,’ Wycliff replied. ‘I’m not looking for brownie points.’
‘Even so, you didn’t have to. You two were estranged your entire adult lives. What you are doing is an exceptional act of kindness. That it was unexpected makes it even more meaningful to your brother.’
Wycliff had no answer for that. When he thought about it, which he had been doing more frequently, he still didn’t understand why he had done what he’d done. Okay, he had a warm bed and a roof over his head. That counted for something. But he could have figured out another way to achieve that. He had money on him, and if he needed more he could get it (although his current MO of stealing cars was a risk he hoped he wouldn’t have to take again). He could have rented a short-term place where he would not have to worry about whether the oxygen was flowing, wipe the shit off a grown man’s ass, lie awake at night with worry, trying to hear if Billy was still breathing. He could even have hit up Charlotte for money. She probably would have said yes, but the conditions that would have been attached to doing that would have made his life even more complicated than it already was. Amelia wouldn’t be in the picture, that was for damn sure. Reason enough to maintain whatever distance from Charlotte that he could.
‘Somebody had to do it,’ he told the lawyer. ‘Otherwise …’ He didn’t finish the thought. It wasn’t necessary.
Levine stood up. ‘Your brother appreciates what you’ve done. He wants you to know that.’
That and three twenty-five buys me a latte at Starbucks, Wycliff thought, as Levine turned to let himself out. ‘How long do I have?’ he asked.
Levine turned back to him, a puzzled look on his face.
‘To stay here. After Billy dies.’
The lawyer’s eyes widened behind his bifocals. ‘I can’t say. There is a provision in his will for caretaking until the property is disposed of, according to his instructions. I can’t tell you what that is.’
‘You mean you won’t.’
‘I’m bound by confidentiality. Please try to understand.’
Wycliff felt weary. Like always, he was fighting against the machine, and like always, the machine was winning. ‘Oh, yeah,’ he answered. ‘I understand.’
‘You won’t be asked to leave immediately,’ Levine said, throwing Wycliff a crumb of hope. ‘At the least, you won’t have to move out until your brother’s will is finalized.’
Not much, but something. ‘How long will that take?’ Wycliff pressed.
‘Not long,’ the lawyer conceded. He seemed flustered at being interrogated, rather than being the one who did the questioning. ‘You will be notified in advance. One more thing: as your brother’s principal caretaker, it will probably be you who is with him when he dies. When that happens, God forbid, but sadly, it’s going to be soon, you must inform me immediately. To withhold that information could cause severe legal consequences. Now if you will excuse me …’ He turned and let himself out, casting a nervous look over his shoulder as he shut the front door behind him.
Wycliff walked into the living room. Billy was awake, staring blankly at the television screen.
‘Everything good?’ Wycliff asked.
Billy turned to him. His face contorted. Even the slightest movement caused him pain. ‘Everything’s perfect.
‘Then let’s play gin. Loser takes out the trash.’ He picked up the deck, sat down at the side of his brother’s bed, and shuffled the cards.
Amelia had the evening off. She would pick up dinner on the way over. ‘No pizza,’ Wycliff cautioned her. ‘His doctor reamed me out over that.’
She shopped at Gelson’s and cooked a stellar gourmet vegetarian meal. Wycliff cut Billy’s food into small, bite-sized pieces, to make sure he didn’t choke on a hunk of asparagus. After dinner was over and Amelia had loaded up the dishwasher (she insisted), they sat around Billy’s bed and played hearts. Billy dumped the Queen of Spades on Wycliff three hands in a row, which got him to cackling like a witch.
‘Careful there,’ Wycliff said, ‘I don’t want you laughing to death on me.’
‘There’s worse ways to go,’ Billy rejoined gleefully. His nails-on-the-blackboard laughter turned to guttural coughing, painful rasps which became desperate gasps for air. Before Amelia could spring into action, Wycliff, who dealt with his brother’s abrupt reversals every day and was accustomed to this by now, sat him up and stuck his fingers down his throat until he coughed up a glob of yellow phlegm. He wiped the goop from Billy’s mouth and held up a glass of water, which his brother swallowed in thirsty gulps.
‘Let’s call it a night,’ Wycliff declared, ‘you’ve taken all my matchsticks anyway.’
Billy nodded glumly. ‘Sorry about that,’ he apologized to Amelia, for being sick.
‘There’s nothing to be sorry about,’ she assured him. ‘I’m a nurse, I see much worse all the time.’
‘I don’t envy you,’ Billy told her. ‘It must be exhausting.’ His chest rose and fell from the effort of sucking air into his lungs.
‘Sometimes,’ she admitted. ‘Sometimes it’s rewarding. Most of the time it just is.’ She washed Billy’s flushed face with a damp washcloth. Smiling wanly with appreciation, he lay back against the p
illow, eyes closed, his breathing returning to a semblance of normality. In less than a minute, he had fallen asleep.
After Wycliff fitted the oxygen mask securely over his brother’s face, he and Amelia went into the kitchen. ‘You’d make a good nurse,’ she told him. ‘You’re calm, you’re competent, you care without letting your feelings interfere.’
He shook his head. ‘Thanks, but that’s not my thing.’
‘Don’t be stuck in the past. Nursing isn’t only a woman’s profession anymore. There are lots of male nurses now. There’s nothing unmasculine about it.’ She reached over and stroked him through his jeans. ‘That’s one thing you don’t have to worry about.’
Her caress got him going, like it had from the first time he had touched her. He pulled her to her feet and kissed her on the mouth. They stumbled their way into the bedroom, trying not to make a ruckus so Billy wouldn’t wake up, and fell onto the bed, fumbling their clothes off, coming together with hot strong kissing. He pushed into her and they pounded each other, trying to get into each other’s skin, body. She grabbed his hair with both hands and he pulled her ass tight to him and came right after she did, and he pushed up on his elbows, panting, staring into her eyes, and she was looking at him and laughing silently, burying her face into his neck.
She would stay the night. She’d brought an overnight bag with her essentials. ‘It’s been quite a while since I spent the night in a man’s bed,’ she told Wycliff. ‘I hope you don’t snore.’
The situation was the same for him. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had shared his bed for more than sex. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her that, she had more guts than he did. ‘Wake me up if I do. How long has it been?’
‘That doesn’t matter. I’m doing it with you, that’s what counts.’
‘I’m flattered,’ he told her.
‘You should be. I’m very picky.’
‘Okay, then I’m honored.’
Which he was, both flattered and honored. It was one thing for Charlotte to lay the bullshit on thick. She had cards up her sleeve she was holding back. Amelia had no ulterior motives, as far as he could tell. She just liked him.
Turn Left at Doheny--A tough-edged crime novel set in Los Angeles Page 14