“Excuse me, but what are you discussing?” the nurse says in a normal tone of voice that sounds embarrassingly loud. We didn’t even hear her come in.
We all turn. I imagine we all look guilty. The nurse looks confused.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” I say. “Can we get a wheelchair?”
“Well, no,” she says. “I’m afraid Miss Gateway cannot be moved. We’re keeping her comfortable but she must remain here.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll get the wheelchair.”
“We don’t even know who you people are,” the nurse says, looking from Heather to Marilyn.
I brush past her and walk out into the hall. There’s an empty wheelchair sitting halfway down with a big white stencil on the back that reads NO. 43. I roll it back to the room. Marilyn is in a conversation with the nurse. Michelle’s feet are jiggling restlessly beneath her blanket. Heather is pressing herself into the corner, probably wondering how she can swipe some pain meds.
“I can’t let you do this,” the nurse says to Marilyn as I park the chair at the head of the bed.
“You don’t get a vote,” I say.
She sizes up the situation, looking from Marilyn, to me, to the chair, to Michelle, and scurries out.
“I resent you putting me in this position,” Marilyn says.
“Okay,” I say. “Help me get her into the chair.”
Marilyn doesn’t move. Instead it’s Heather who whips back the sheets. I’m terrified to see what’s beneath the covers, but compared to my imagination Michelle doesn’t look so bad. There’s not much of her left, but it’s all tucked inside her hospital gown. It makes me feel brave enough to touch her. I scoop her up, one arm under her back, one under her knees. She’s very cold and she doesn’t resist. I lift, and she’s lighter than I imagined. I goose her bony ass on one of the arms of the wheelchair. Michelle grimaces.
I settle Michelle in the chair, and immediately she starts shaking.
“Get her blankets,” I tell Heather.
We tuck the baby-blue blanket around Michelle’s legs, and Heather finds another one in the closet. I lean Michelle forward, drop it behind her back, and drape it over her shoulders. Michelle makes another pained face.
“Let me do that,” Marilyn snaps, exasperated by my ineptitude, and she tucks the blanket around Michelle and settles her back.
Michelle pulls on Marilyn’s arm with one quavering hand.
“Thank . . . you,” Michelle says. “. . . thank you . . .”
Marilyn straightens and pinches the bridge of her nose.
“You will have a lot to answer for,” she says to me.
“You take point,” I say, feeling right, feeling on mission. “Heather, bring up the rear. Down to the second floor, over to the parking garage, and then to the car.”
I glare at Marilyn until she gives me a nod.
We roll out of the room in formation, me pushing the chair, Marilyn walking in front of us, Heather following a few steps behind. I left Julia and Fine behind. I won’t leave Michelle. There’s a scrum of doctors and nurses and orderlies by the nurses’ station. They step into our path.
“Excuse us, please,” Marilyn says as we push through. “I’m so sorry. We’re in a rush.”
They scatter, then regroup and follow, and I hear a chorus of “Who are you?” and “Where are you taking her?” Then Heather does her thing.
“Back off!” she shouts. “Just back off!”
I hear the clickety-click of a box cutter blade sliding out of its plastic handle, and I don’t need to look back to know she’s taking wild swings, keeping them all back. We roll quickly, Marilyn setting a fast pace, passing doors full of red-eyed, crying families wrapped deep in their own private dramas.
“Excuse us,” Marilyn chirps as she brushes past nurses. “Pardon me. So sorry. If you don’t mind? Thank you.”
The elevator bank is up ahead, and we’re almost there when I see two security goons coming down the hall from the opposite direction. They have giant bellies, green baseball caps, green windbreakers, and they both look like they’re on the wrong side of fifty. This might be the fastest they’ve ever walked in their lives.
One of them slows to a stop, blocking the hall, holding up his hand with casual arrogance as if of course we’re going to stop because he’s a man in a jacket that says Security on the back.
“Girls,” he says. “Party’s over.”
Marilyn reaches him first, and my heart leaps to see her pushing the call button as she speaks, pouring all that warm Texas honey into her voice.
“Sir,” she says. “We are her good friends, and we’re zipping her home to pick up some things. We’ll be right back. They told us it was fine at the desk and I do so hope we haven’t done anything wrong.”
“This is a hospice,” the smaller security goon says. “People don’t go home.”
“Well, she just needs a few things,” Marilyn says.
“I don’t care about that,” the one with his hand out says, stepping forward and covering the call buttons so Marilyn can’t push them anymore. The two goons crowd their big bellies around her. “You need to let the doctors take this patient back to her room.”
“How do you know her?” the other security goon asks.
“We all belong to the same book club.” Marilyn smiles sweetly.
The elevator dings and the door rumbles open. There’s a teenaged girl with black-rimmed eyes standing against the back, a pack of cigarettes and lighter in one hand. Marilyn places her body between the security men and the wheelchair and Heather joins her, standing shoulder-to-shoulder.
“What the fuck is your problem?” Heather asks. “She wants out. Is this a fucking prison?”
I push the wheelchair onto the elevator behind them.
“Miss!” one of the goons shouts, suddenly frantic as he sees me getting away. “You can’t do that. Miss!”
I stop next to the teenager, Michelle facing the back wall.
“Marilyn?” I say. “We’re in.”
She and Heather step back into the elevator and Heather starts jamming on the 2 button and Door Close at the same time. One of the guards makes the mistake of grabbing Marilyn by her arm. The door tries to close but bounces off his beefy biceps.
“I can’t let you girls do this,” he says.
Marilyn reaches into her purse and pulls out a small black cylinder. She touches it to his crotch. There’s a snapping crackle and the man leaps back like he’s been kicked by a mule, then he’s sitting on the ground, crying.
“I am so sorry,” Marilyn says. “I feel just awful about this.”
The doors close and after a gut-twisting second the elevator starts to drop. There’s silence for a moment and then:
“You zapped him in the nuts,” the teenaged girl says, incredulous.
“Fucking A,” Heather says.
“I want you to know that I deeply, deeply resent the position you’ve put me in,” Marilyn tells me.
The door dings and we get off on two.
“Have a nice day.” Marilyn smiles at the girl as we leave.
We push through the double glass doors and enter the cool, dark garage. I listen for echoes of cop cars coming, for the squeal of tires turning corners, for squawking radio voices looking for four females, one in a wheelchair, but the garage is silent. I push the chair over the grease-stained concrete until we reach Marilyn’s SUV.
“Let me back it out,” she says.
“You’d better not fucking ditch us,” Heather says.
“Sweetie,” Marilyn says, “if I could figure out how to do that, I’d have done it long ago.”
She pulls herself up into the driver’s seat, then slams the door and her taillights flare red, then white, and she reverses out next to us. I lift Michelle into the back seat.
“I’m .
. . sorry . . .” she says, short of breath, as I clip the seat belt around her. It’s practically flat against the seat. There’s not much of Michelle left.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Marilyn says, turning around in the front. “You just hang on and we’ll have you at the ranch lickety-split.”
“Shotgun!” Heather calls, hauling herself into the front seat. “What? I’m not sitting next to a dead woman. Nothing personal, Michelle.”
Michelle tries to moisten her lips and speak, but she’s too weak and her tongue is too dry. I sit next to her and we’re out of there. There’s no gate at the exit, probably because it’d be in bad taste to bring people here to die and then hit their families up for money on the way out. There are no cop cars waiting for us, not even a parking garage attendant to write down our tags.
With the wheelchair sliding and thumping around in the back, we crawl over the anti-tire devices at the exit and then pull out onto the street and head for the freeway. That’s when we realize we have no idea where Michelle’s ranch is.
“Julia’s been,” I say.
“Well, Julia’s not here right now,” Marilyn says. “Heather?”
“Don’t you send her fucking Christmas cards every year?” she asks.
“To her PO box,” Marilyn snaps.
“Michelle?” I ask. “Michelle?”
She’s turned her face to the window and has her eyes closed, basking in the sunlight.
“Michelle, we need you to give us directions to the ranch,” I say.
She nods, without opening her eyes, then says something. I lean in close.
“The 10,” she whispers. “The 10 . . . the 10 . . .”
“Take the 10,” I tell Marilyn.
We pass through downtown L.A., none of us talking much. Marilyn turns the radio to lite jazz. I listen for sirens. I know this isn’t going to end well. I can already feel it starting to fall apart in my hands. Next to me, Michelle mumbles to herself.
“Sweetheart, what do we do once we’re on the 10,” Marilyn asks, flicking her eyes to the rearview mirror. “Do we get on the 101? Ask her if we get on the 101.”
“Michelle,” I say. “Do we take the 101? Do you have a street address I can put in my phone?”
“Did anyone bring her purse?” Marilyn asks.
“The 10,” Michelle says. Then she says something else, and I lean in close. “I’m sorry . . .” she whispers. She looks like she’s about to cry.
“It’s okay,” I say. “Really, it’s okay.”
I don’t know if she heard me so I pat her hand. It’s dry.
“She didn’t have a purse,” Heather says.
“I’m beginning to see some flaws in this plan,” Marilyn says, looking at me in the rearview mirror.
“What exit do we take, Michelle?” I ask her again.
“Dani’s flowers . . .” she says.
“That’s right,” I say. “We’re going to see Dani’s flowers. But we need to know how to get there. We’re on the 10, so what exit do we take?”
“I’m going . . .” she gasps. “To see?”
“We just passed Venice Boulevard,” Marilyn says. “I’m pretty sure the only exit we can take after this is the 405.”
“Unless we’re going up the PCH,” I say.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Marilyn says.
A ripe, rotten smell fills the car.
“Did she shit herself?” Heather asks, furiously fanning the air in front of her face and rolling her window down all the way. “Oh, fuck, it reeks. What’s she been eating?”
Marilyn veers toward an exit.
“What are you doing?” I ask. We cannot stop. There are cops. There are monsters. We have to keep moving.
“I am not going to let this woman sit in her own mess,” she says, curving down the exit ramp onto a surface street, heading toward a Ralphs supermarket. “She is Dani’s special friend, and she deserves some dignity.”
“Not much dignity when your pants are full of shit,” Heather notes.
Marilyn parks, cuts off the engine, and rounds on Heather.
“This is a natural human process,” she snaps. “We will accord her the respect that any of us would expect if we were in her situation. You two need to gently take her out of the car and get the mat I have for changing tires from the back. Lay her on it, and I’ll be right back.”
She snatches her purse and is gone.
“Lynne, make me a promise,” Heather says. “If this ever happens to me, just throw me in a ditch and walk away.”
She refuses to touch Michelle, so after I scan the parking lot I unbuckle her seat belt and pick her up. I don’t want to touch her but I don’t want to be like Heather either. What’s wrong with us? I saw my family killed before my eyes and didn’t make a sound, but confronted with my friend’s wife’s shit I’m squeamish? Why are we more comfortable with fast, dramatic deaths than the slow decay most people get? After all, isn’t this why we fought so hard? To have the right to do what Michelle is doing right this minute?
“Of course Marilyn has a yoga mat for changing tires,” Heather complains, spreading it on the parking lot next to the car. I lay Michelle down on it gently, but don’t know what to do next. Her eyes track something across the sky. I look up but there’s nothing there. We’re too exposed. I can’t see anyone coming through all these cars.
* * *
—
Did you two get her undressed?” Marilyn demands, returning loaded with bags.
“Hell, no,” Heather says.
“You are such children,” she says. “This was your idea, Lynnette. What are you waiting for?”
Marilyn insists that Heather hold up one of the blankets from the hospice as a privacy screen, and she bosses me into unwrapping the other one from around Michelle’s waist and raising her hospital gown.
“I’m sorry,” I tell Michelle.
I don’t think she hears me.
She’s wearing a diaper, and Marilyn briskly undoes it and I slide it off. It’s full of a black, tarry mess. Marilyn folds it over and pops it into one of the empty shopping bags. Then she uses a gallon of water and some dish towels to wash Michelle’s bottom. I keep an eye on our approaches. I listen for sirens. Marilyn blots Michelle dry, then makes me help pull another adult diaper up her legs.
Together we put the unprotesting woman into the back seat and buckle her up again. She doesn’t seem to notice.
Marilyn rolls up the wet mat and tucks it into one of the shopping bags, still dripping water.
“Heather, go throw this away.”
“I’m not touching that,” Heather says. “Just leave it.”
“We are not litterbugs,” Marilyn snaps. “Throw this away or I’ll smack you.”
Heather heads off, lugging the bags and the wet mat. I keep an eye out for cops. She’s back in a few minutes, then we’re pulling out of the parking lot and heading down Olympic Boulevard.
Something scratches at me and I look down to see Michelle’s hand, blindly scratching at my fingers. I don’t know what to do, so I open my hand and she weaves her fingers into mine. They’re strong. She never looks at me once, still staring out the window, eyes wide now, lips moving.
“Do you know where we’re going?” I ask her again.
“To see . . . Dani . . .” she says. “. . . Dani’s flowers . . .”
“This is useless,” Heather says, putting her head in her hands.
“Get out your phone,” Marilyn says. “We’ll call Dr. Carol. She’ll know where Dani’s ranch is.”
“She’s going to freak the fuck out,” Heather says, speaking for both of us.
“Yeah,” I say. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“Your last good idea landed us in this pickle,” Marilyn says. “One of you is calling Dr. Carol or I will thump you.”
“My battery’s dead,” Heather mumbles.
Marilyn thrusts her iPhone at her.
“Use mine,” she says. “She’s in the address book under Elliott.”
Michelle takes a great, shuddering breath, then yawns. I count to five before she takes her next breath.
“I can’t find it,” Heather says, swatting away Marilyn’s hands as they try to take back her phone.
They both feel very far away and quiet all of a sudden.
Michelle takes a sudden deep breath, then begins to pant.
“Um, she’s not doing very well,” I say.
Marilyn takes a quick look back.
“I found it,” Heather says.
Marilyn overhands the wheel hard to the left. I slide into Michelle.
“We’re not going to the ranch,” Marilyn says, straightening the car.
“I thought that was the whole point?” Heather says.
Marilyn doesn’t answer.
“How is she, Lynnette?” she asks.
“Not good,” I say.
Marilyn parks and gets out of the car.
“You two, come,” she commands.
I pull my hand out of Michelle’s and slide out the door. She doesn’t seem to notice. We’re in a well-to-do suburban neighborhood, parked on the sidewalk near a city park. It’s a big grassy square with two paths cutting it into quarters, dotted with trees and picnic tables. I don’t see many people. We stand on the sidewalk, Heather slouched against the hood.
“Now what?” Heather demands.
“This woman doesn’t have much time,” Marilyn says. “Now I do not agree with your choices, but you might not have forced us to do the worst thing in the world. We need to be with her now. She is going to pass, and she is going to pass outdoors, and if she asks if Dani’s here you are both going to say yes, and if she asks if she is at her ranch you are both going to say yes, also.”
“But—” Heather begins.
“Especially you,” Marilyn says. “This woman is not going to die in the back of a car.”
Marilyn turns on me.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
Michelle yawns and flexes her hands when I open the door, and the three of us, with Heather helping as little as possible, manage to get her into the wheelchair, then wrap her in the blankets. We push her into the little park. It’s early and there are only a handful of old Chinese ladies doing tai chi, and an elderly man in pants up to his armpits jabbing at molehills with his cane.
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