The Beggar's Garden

by Michael Christie

  Didn’t plan on it, Sideburns said.

  What if we were in an accident? Aren’t these straps like seat-belts for the patient?

  You’re the boss, he said, and leaned over to buckle me tightly across my thighs and chest, which reminded me of my chest pains that had by then mercifully subsided. With my heart attack ancient history, the straps had me feeling all gathered in, a scattered thing at long last collected.

  Yes, this suicide business was technically a lie. I did not crave death, not immediately anyway, but I’d always trusted myself to reject immortality if it were offered to me so this lent what I’d said a partial truth. I lay conjuring the unbearable climate of an actually suicidal mind and stayed focused on that, pitying this person who loathed life for reasons unexplainable to others. I decided that while locating my paramedic and giving him his card, I would help the paramedics and doctors out by providing free training for dealing with suicidal people, and the performance of this good deed would detoxify any and all of the lies necessary to unite us.

  Oxygen bottles clinked and plastic bags of life-giving juices swung with the potholes and turns and I crossed my arms contentedly over the straps.

  Friday night, said Sideburns, offering this as explanation for the packed waiting area.

  I sat in one of the only empty seats and watched him chat with the intake nurses. Then he and the old paramedic went outside to hack down halves of cigarettes, spitting through their teeth and telling each other funny stories, some probably about me, before departing in their ambulance without a goodbye. Just like policemen, there are good paramedics and bad paramedics. If there weren’t, the good ones wouldn’t be so heaven-sent, and at that moment even for this I was grateful.

  There was plenty else to look at while I kept my other eye on the ambulance parking area: people in flip-flops and shorts, others in pyjamas, still others swathed in elegant black for nights on the town cut short. People get hurt on weekends because they let their guard down when they try to be carefree. They forget their guard is often what keeps things from going awfully wrong. I wondered whether my guard was up or down right then and decided it was both. An ambulance pulled in but it wasn’t him. Some paramedics I loosely recognized pushed through the crowd of people with a stretcher, on it a muttering old woman who looked to be sculpted of ash. They disappeared through some doors marked No Entry.

  On the televisions hanging from the ceiling, people’s pets were getting makeovers from a man wearing a kimono and a golden top hat. The owners put their hands to their cheeks and couldn’t believe their pets were their pets.

  Do I look sick? a man beside me asked.

  That depends, I said.

  On what?

  On what you’re supposed to look like normally.

  At this he raked at the reddened turf of his scalp with his fingers. He had a deep, fat-man voice and a kind, puddingy face that I felt the unbearable urge to jostle in some way.

  They tell me I got nothing wrong with me but I got this pain in my guts. Won’t stop. He patted where his shirt strained to envelop a large, hard belly that seemed to me deeply powerful like a sizzling cartoon bomb. I saw the crater-like dent in his shirt demarking his belly button.

  You don’t look sick, you look good to me, I said, squinching my eyes, resisting the urge to pat his belly while giving him an appraising once over. He smacked his lips, about to disagree.

  Maya? said a large woman in a cream cardigan and a ton of silver jewellery.

  That’s me, I said, standing, then remembered my suicidalness and bent my smile back into a hyphen of despair.

  She asked for my health number, which I recited from memory. The nurse shrugged like number-taking was the mostloathsome chore in the world. Some hate the efficient memories of others because their own are shot to hell. She probably found herself at least two nights of the week in the middle of her living room wearing only one slipper, carrying an egg beater, without the faintest idea what she was supposed to be doing. I decided to pity her.

  She asked about my medical history, which I won’t tell you because it’s mostly boring. The paramedics had already explained my current situation and I was pleased I didn’t have to talk about harming myself again because since I’d been there around all these caring and interesting people, I was feeling much better.

  Emergency contact? she said.

  What? I said.

  Someone who we can notify in case something, you know, transpires.

  I sat, pausing, but actually thinking this time. She had a picture atop her computer monitor of a kid in a judo uniform who shared her brassy hair and fatigued expression. The truth was I had nobody—who would give a hoot if I died, I mean. Sure, like everyone I had parents, and even a sibling or two, but they were petty, disinterested people in a faraway town, people to whom I hadn’t spoken since the advent of caller ID.

  No, there was only my paramedic, who, when he learned of my untimely death, would scuttle himself on a series of all-night drunks, spending hours transfixed by the digits of his alarm clock, guessing when the numbers would turn—saying, Now, no … okay, now—all in an effort to flee the searing fact that he’d, just one week ago, overlooked the unmistakable warning signs of my fatal sadness. Can mine be 911? I said.

  Funny, she said, as if what I said was the negative of funny. What we mean is family, next of kin, close friends, relatives—Can I pass? I said. She nodded knowingly, kept typing.

  Back in the waiting area I found the same chair and watched for ambulances, hoping I hadn’t been gone long enough to miss him. I lifted my feet for a turbaned janitor making spirals with a mop. I’ve never smelled the janitorial products of a hospital anywhere else, and I figure the company that supplies them must be a good investment because the smells have never changed, not since I was a kid. The gut guy was gone and I read my new ID wristband a few times, just my name and DOB written there beneath soft vinyl. The date wasn’t so long ago but at that moment seemed ancient. I’ve always liked how they make the ID bands impossible to remove without destroying them, how for this reason you could never wear the bracelet of another, how they, and the belonging they bestow, must be earned. I felt unique and proud to have one, even though my mission there at the hospital was ultimately a selfish one.

  When I was ten I broke both arms falling from the roof of my house while helping my dad clean the gutters. I got two casts that ran from my wrists deep into my armpits. Not able to reach my face, I had to be spoon-fed every meal by nurses. I was instantly entranced by the trays of gorgeously compartmentalized food, by the fluffing of pillows and by the lovely regularity with which the nurses asked each morning how I’d slept, as if there were so many different ways it could have gone. Dutifully, I sought to describe these sleeps as best I could.

  Effervescent, I said one morning, something I’d learned from a dictionary in the lounge the previous day, and the nurse’s hyena laugh brought another nurse to see if we were okay.

  During this time, I refused to wash my hands, smearing them on railings and doorknobs before hiding under the covers to lick each finger meticulously. I would locate the sickest kids, corner them and inhale deeply at their collars. I was polite with the nurses and never watched television, suspecting they looked down on it. I even considered re-breaking my arms by falling off my bed, but I feared the nurses would know I’d done it myself. Also, I feared the crash would wake my roommate, a kid who’d buckled his face on a spruce while riding an ATV. He groaned intermittently and breathed as if through a straw filled with pudding. Sometimes I even swore the room smelled like spruce. His parents came every second day in matching leather jackets, and his father’s girlish sobbing was pitiful to hear. As she drew the curtain closed around them, the mother would regard me with contempt for my breathing clarity and uncollapsed face.

  Happily, I managed to stay long enough for other things to go wrong. Before my casts came off, I had my tonsils out, and then, not long after I was spooning up my own solid food, I got pneumonia. I wep
t in the arms of a nurse when I was finally sent home.

  Now here I was, back at the hospital, and even though I’d packed a bag, I had to remind myself I wasn’t here to stay this time.

  Hours passed and the ambulances grew more frequent. The injuries migrated steadily from those self-inflicted to those inflicted by others. The television programs, in turn, became more violent and I wondered if there was a connection.

  A drunk man in a tank top that said Ask Me If I Care held a diaper to his caved cheekbone and sought for nearly an hour to convince his girlfriend to call his mother because it was her birthday.

  Here, I’m dialling, he said, waving his phone with his free hand as she cupped her ears and shook her head, while saying over and over that this was his shit.

  A worn-looking woman with a shelf of sparkly cleavage stared unflinchingly up at the television. She clicked her furry heeled boots on the waxed floor and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She didn’t flinch when the nurse finally called her, once out loud, then over the intercom. She jumped when the nurse’s silver-bangled hand met her shoulder.

  I investigated each person called before me to the examination rooms for signs of illness. Most of them didn’t seem that bad off, but of course neither did I. It’s hard to see that someone wants to end their life just by looking at them, so I trusted in their greater need for medical attention and didn’t get frustrated.

  Finally, the nurse called me and I gave one last look to the empty ambulance area and followed the blue line as instructed, walking it like a tightrope.

  There was no tissue paper on the green vinyl bed so I spooled some out and sat down. I studied the tools for looking into people’s different holes. They were attached to a little box with curly headphone cords, all hung up like a celebrity kitchen. People like hanging tools on the walls because it helps them remember they can handle any kind of situation.

  Put this on, a cheery nurse with a lip problem said, handing me a gown. Then she zipped shut the curtain with a grating metal-on-metal sound.

  I set the gown on the paper, took out a tongue depressor and depressed my tongue, but it almost made me puke so I stuck it back in the jar. I didn’t put the gown on because my problem was in my mind not my body so there would be no need for an examination. I waited, listening for the sound of the paramedic’s voice from outside the curtain.

  The curtain zipped again. Hi Maya, I’m Doctor Gerwer, said a white-coated man. He had hair that seemed too blond for his face and steel, efficient-looking glasses.

  I understand you are having some trouble, he said, that you’ve been experiencing some troubling thoughts.

  Oh, they aren’t too bad, I said. I have nice ones too so they balance out.

  Well, it says here you’ve been feeling like you may harm yourself?

  Everyone wants to impress their doctor and I’m no different. I pronounce clearly and try to present him with symptoms he’ll find remarkable. I want to thrill him with the story of the greatest disease in the history of diseases, a disease that has chosen me only because it knows I and I alone am worthy enough to endure it. I want to lead him to a diagnosis that’s so clear-cut, all he has to do is sign off on it, then we can go for drinks and chat about how brilliant I am for diagnosing myself with no formal training, and about how hopelessly out of touch most people are with their own bodies. But unfortunately, I didn’t want to kill myself at all anymore, and being away from the ambulances made me antsy, so I stamped out my storytelling urges. Yeah, but I’m fine now.

  He took a slow breath and seemed like he was thinking. I scribbled a mental note that the pausing-equals-thinking trick really did work.

  Do you think it’s possible to force yourself to stop breathing?

  Oh, no, I said.

  But this is what you told the paramedics? Correct? I made a remembering face. I guess so, I said, then shrugged as breezily as I could manage. He made some notes.

  Well, Maya, I think it would be best for us to have you as our guest here a few days to see if we can get you all sorted out.

  I really don’t want to stay, I said. I’m feeling better.

  I’m afraid it’s something that we strongly suggest.

  I couldn’t believe I was turning down a free visit to the hospital, even if I’d be in the psych ward where the nurses weren’t as nice and definitely didn’t fluff pillows, but that’s the kind of sacrifice you have to be willing to make for love. I knew I needed to distract the doctor and the best way was to give him something he could feel good about.

  What I have been having is a pain in my guts.

  He scrunched his face. Let’s see, he said, putting his hand to my belly, testing me like a steak.

  Is the pain here? he said, pressing deep with the two fingers you use to take a pulse.

  My guts didn’t really hurt but his pressing could have hurt if he had done it even just a little harder so I said yes.

  Hmmm, he said. Have you felt this kind of pain before?

  No, I said, I don’t think—Oh! You know what? I did eat some chicken today that had been in my fridge for a while.

  Oh sure, he said, chicken can grow all kinds of nasty bacteria. What I do is label food I put in the fridge with a date, so I know how long it’s been there.

  That must be it, I said. I’ll be sure to do that smart labelling thing, thanks, Doc, this pain is already feeling better, thanks so much for your help. I stood, clapped my hands and started gathering up my things. I was sure my plan had worked, but he just looked at me, puzzled.

  Why don’t you wait here and I’ll have someone walk you over to the psychiatric unit, where you’ll be more comfortable, he said, and left the room.

  It felt like something had rolled down a steep hill inside me and struck something valuable. Convinced I would never find my paramedic, my body became heavy with real, actual despair, not the kind that makes you kill yourself, but the kind that makes you give up on something you desperately want and just go home.

  When I was in the hospital with my broken arms there was a lady in the gift shop who gave me penny-candy fish or bookmarks with funny sayings. She didn’t have to be nice to me, but was anyway. When I was older I returned to the hospital and a different lady was behind the counter. She said the other lady had died. I asked her for some free penny candy and she scowled.

  Nobody does something kind for someone else if they don’t love them, even a little. I’m not stupid, though, I knew my paramedic was supposed to come to my apartment to help me, that it was his job, and people do jobs for money not because they want to. But people choose careers in health care because they love caring for people. The problem was my paramedic and I wouldn’t be given the chances other couples were, happening into each other on the street, or joining the same life-drawing class. He’d chosen to find my nightgown interesting, which means he must have loved at least some little part in me, and I couldn’t let that slip away.

  I passed the nurses’ station and none of them looked up from their computers or cups of microwavable soup. I came across a pair of orderlies striding the blue line in the direction I’d come from and ducked my head.

  Then came the thrilling moment in the lobby when I saw him, wheeling a guy on a stretcher through automatically parting doors. I called to him but my words were outstripped by what he and the other paramedics and nurses were yelling to one another about colours and codes.

  I’d prepared for complications like this by accustoming myself to the thought of him caring for other patients, so I wasn’t anywhere near jealous. His job was important to him, he was career oriented, that’s why I liked him, and trust is something that must be unconditional.

  They were moving quickly toward the No Entry doors so I had to trot to catch him, even though at that moment I was finding it difficult to breathe.

  Hi, I said, tapping him on the shoulder.

  He turned and I saw that our time apart had infused his face with an even greater surplus of beauty. He began to speak but I accidentally inte
rrupted him by blurting, Your card! horrified that I must have left my bag in the examination room.

  Wait here! I said, and thanked the god that I don’t believe in for the blue line that I was able to trace back, because otherwise I would have got lost because people do silly things in the throes of passion with their guards down.

  I whipped open a few wrong curtains, saying sorry to the different sick people, some of whom I recognized from the lobby, until I found my old examination room, where there was now an old man laying on his stomach, his withered butt peeking through his gown. I found my bag tucked under a little stool and the old man didn’t stir. So even though it wasn’t nighttime, I changed into my interesting nightgown because I was worried my paramedic hadn’t remembered me without it to trigger his memory. It crossed my mind that the next person to undo each of its five neck buttons that were shaped like mini-seashells might not be me, and my heart felt like four different hearts who were all best friends, pumping away in unison for a good and noble cause.

  When I got back my paramedic was gone. I pushed through the No Entry doors and spotted him and some others down a hallway. They had stopped beside an elevator, waiting for something or someone.

  Hi, I said when I caught up to him. He was holding some bags of fluid up in the air and his armpits were sweaty, but not too sweaty, a good, healthy amount.

  Hi? he said, glancing down at my nightgown and I could tell he still found it profoundly interesting.

  You can’t be in here, said a bearded security guard, his hand on my back.

  It’s okay, the paramedic said to him, which he didn’t have to do, and this warmed my heart and proved that I and I alone remained his favourite patient. His eyes were so blue that I bet on a clear day, looking up at him from underneath with his hands planted in the grass on each side of your face, they would look like holes bored all the way through his head.

  Can I help you? he said.

  Here, I said, holding out his card, this is for you.

  He didn’t reach for it and I prayed I’d spelled Paramedic right because he was regarding the envelope with a funny expression.