The next few days come and go so fast, I hardly have time to process all the things that happen. I failed with Maddox, who probably won’t let me step foot in his room, but I reconciled with Mandel and Ms. Margaret. I have a small sense of victory that boosts my mood, but as the days go on, I gradually begin to forget why I have such a positive mood until today, when I’m making rounds and can’t remember why I feel so good. It is always confusing to be happy but not have the reason for it.
I haven’t seen Maddox for days now. Every time I pass his closed door, I want to rush in, say something, and do something about the situation. Sometimes, I’ll be in the hallway listening to Eleanora and the nurses talk but find that my eyes have fixed themselves on his closed door. I refuse to bring him up in any conversation. And because so many days have passed in the building, his mythos had faded. There was no longer any mystery.
The day goes on from one patient to another, from one session of paperwork to files, to consults, to staring out the window of the building just to see the light of the sun on the waving leaves of trees. As I stand next to a window looking out on the rest of the city, I imagine what it would feel like to walk out of the building, to feel the warmth of the sun and the cool breeze. I would walk out the nearest exit. No need for theatrics, I would just go.
Those are the fun thoughts to have at work. When I make believe it’s possible to go outside in order to be somewhere else, anywhere else except inside the sterile walls of this hospital and just before the reality sets in to ruin the fun, I always feel like I can do it; I can just leave.
The fun stops when I realize there are ties that keep me in place such as money, responsibility, and sore legs. I can’t just leave but thinking about it makes me happy and it’s times like these that remind me, that there is this dream I have about quitting this place. I would get on a plane and fly away from all the other people like me and be gone. When I land, I’d just keep moving, inextricably motivated and funded. I would push on through all the cities, all the people, all the cultures. And there would be no deadlines or schedules or failures in this dream. The nights would be long and the days full of sleep. The whole thing is romantic and stupid and wild and exciting. I think about that kind of life when I stand and stare out windows and I suppose this is what happens to people under a lot of stress. Because what I have now--my life--is good but it isn’t what I thought it would be.
Why do I work this hard? Why do I strive to be this version of myself? Is there any part of me now that’s truly authentic? This life I have is a good one and I feel terrible for doubting any of it, but it feels like I wrap myself in the opinions of people, instead of the people themselves. It’s like I do everything right, and now that I’m three feet from the finish line, I can’t move my feet forward. I don’t even know if I love this job; I’m good at it, but then I’m good at most things.
Chapter 19
I loved it when Maddox was in my life. When coming in to work each day was filled with the excitement of seeing him and talking to him, holding his strong arm as I wrapped the blood pressure cuff around it to check his progress. Each day I looked in his beautiful aqua eyes. There was passion in those eyes. But now that he’s kicked me out of his room there isn’t a massive sense of passion filling me with pride. I tried to explain it to my sister that one night we met for drinks, but even she didn’t get it. What the hell am I supposed to do? It’s just a job like any other I’ve had and it shouldn't be. I’m a doctor, for Christ's sake. I’m supposed to get mountains of fulfillment from this kind of a job, but I don’t. As a matter of fact, the only thing that has given me any sense of satisfaction is Maddox. Ever since the night he came into the ER crazy drunk, my heart has been on fire. He lit me up. He put that one thing, that one big thing that has always been missing back in my life. The one thing I can’t find in a job but gives purpose to my life. And it occurs to me that in my sterile, analytical world of medicine there’s no room for the abstract, for things like hope or love. These kinds of things can’t be defined or explained with science. They can’t be measured like a temperature or examined using a CT scan, because love is illusive. It’s unpredictable. It comes and goes like the breeze at its own whim.
Is it going to be like this forever? Will I wake up thirty years from now with the same sentiment, or will I have given up on trying to understand and accept that small feeling? It starts in my heart, where the sensation causes me to become aware of the blood that flows in and out of the ventricles. It sends warm needles to my legs and my face. It causes me to lose my thoughts. It beads into sweat on my forehead and dries my mouth and I want to scream out at the top of my lungs, “Maddox!”
And just as the thoughts begin to stack up on me, I hear a voice call my name. From the atmospheric realms of consciousness, I am recalled. I hurl back towards the earth, through the clouds to the tops of buildings to the trees and finally, to the window where Mandel stands beside me saying my name again. I greet him with a, “Hello,” and standing next to Mandel is a tall, older man who sets his eyes and smile on me like a heat lamp. I feel flushed with conflicting temperatures as the stranger’s gaze causes me to be cold within, but searing on the surface. Mandel points at me and says my name to the tall stranger.
“Pleased to meet you. I have heard great things, Dr. Brasco.”
“Thank you Mr. ...” I pause for his introduction.
“Wernicke,” he says, nodding his head at me.
His eyebrows are thinned to the point of being nonexistent. His wrinkles carve hard lines in his face that convey years of frowning and dissent. His smile is forced and simple, yet there’s something ugly and slimy about it; hardly any effort was mustered for it.
Mandel begins to talk about me as if I’m some sort of wunderkind. He mentions my high marks in school, my exemplary bedside manner and a host of other characteristics and attributes that seem elevated, almost godlike in his description of me. My cheeks flush rouge in the surprise brought on by Mandel’s words.
The tall stranger nods the whole time, smiling his false smile with glazed eyes that depict a man utterly outside the conversation. He has probably been in many conversations like this and over the course of time has learned a few words or phrases can be used for most any introduction. His hair is combed into perfect cotton-white rows that part from the left to the right side of his head. His eyes are a hazy blue, filled with years of files and computer screens. Their color is almost completely washed out and it looks like a blue sky from underneath a murky pool.
Wernicke cuts off Mandel with the raising of his hand. He says he’s the director of the hospital, which means he’s the most important person talking right now. The weight of his wallet can be felt in every inflected tone in his voice. He mentions Maddox. Just like that.
“What a brute,” he says simply. “People can be so crass. I thank you for all your professionalism. It really does mean a great deal.”
With an extended hand he offers a handshake, as if we are agreeing upon something. His voice carries wealth and arrogance. It sails across to me like a paper airplane on a lazy breeze. I can detect the stale notes of crusted food that linger in the back of his mouth. His breath steps in front of his speech. I shake it and look to Mandel. He sends me a peculiar look, one I have never seen on his face before.
He folds his hands, then unfolds them. He licks his lips and keeps looking at Wernicke. He rocks back and forth as the director and I talk. I thank the lumbering stranger with a nod and ask him what he knows about Maddox. It only seems right to ask as he had so bluntly brought up the issue.
The director smiles his faux smile at me, saying, “I believe medicine is a serious practice, Doctor, wouldn’t you agree?”
I always hate these kinds of questions. People like Wernicke ask these inane questions to buy time while they think of the next ridiculous thing to say. I humor him, smiling back with my own bullshit demeanor. He goes on, saying, “As it is a serious practice, we expect a certain respect from our patients. In Maddo
x’s case, we were met with levity and indignation.”
I smile and nod to him. If Maddox could do anything well, it was getting under people’s skin. The thought of Wernicke getting angry at Maddox brightens my smile. When I ask him how many times he has met with Maddox, his thin eyebrows drop flat over his eyes. He leans in a bit as he says, “You asked me what I know of Maddox, so I’ll tell you. I have not had the pleasure of his company, but from the way people talk about him I know he is rude, simple, violent and a drain on our resources, the most precious of which is new doctors.”
He describes Maddox like a simple equation. I am listening to man who is analytical and precise in his prejudices. I must have nodded at all the right times because he finally stops talking and the moment of a new topic is suddenly upon us. I quickly shift the focus to Mandel asking about his son.
Mandel smiles a real smile and it’s like seeing the sun’s rays pierce through the clouds. He explains that Jonathan is now conscious. I’m so excited for the news and I hug Mandel immediately. Mandel thanks me and I feel the upwelling of tears begin to meet the corners of my eyes until I look over at Wernicke. He stands still, with a gravely confused look on his face.
Mandel turns to Wernicke and extends his hand. The tall director shakes Mandel’s hand as he says, “I must have told you a dozen times about my son’s injuries and you always listened…” Here, I see a flick of memory fire off in Wernicke's head. He nods in rhythm to the movement of Mandel’s mouth. He was informed of Jonathan's injuries but it’s like he’s half remembering the lyrics to a song he has forgotten.
How can Wernicke forget Mandel’s son, how can he forget such horrible injuries? Yet I can see, that with each encounter, each conversation, Wernicke is as removed and non-committed as the one we are having now. The man just doesn’t care.
Mandel is too happy to notice the look on Wernicke’s face. And maybe because he’s his superior, Mandel doesn’t acknowledge the vacancy in the eyes or the flatness of the smile. He is fast running out of things to hope for these days so when this one good bit of news arrives, he has to allow leniency for all the other failures. At least this is what I assume.
Wernicke quickly snaps back into his facade and is congratulating and patting Mandel’s shoulder. The two have snappy back and forth chit-chat about courage and perseverance. They talked about Jonathan’s bravery and strength. Wernicke says, “What a strong young man.” Wernicke seems to just react to the silence when Mandel stops talking. “Your boy is on the road to recovery now.” Was that the best he could do? I look out the window again to imagine myself walking out of the building yet again, and this is the only thing that keeps me sane enough to reciprocate with a phony smile.
I have all I can take from the conversation and tell the two of them I have to leave, but am pleased about Jonathan’s news and meeting Mr. Wernicke. With this, I fade down the hall. Out each window, I see a version of myself walking away from this place. Walking away until I am out of sight.
Chapter 20
The day starts for me when a man with a swastika tattooed on his neck stops breathing. The police show up some time after his death; I can’t remember exactly when. He just lies in the bed with eyes pointed towards the ceiling, like he’s watching for someone. He died on my shift and I don’t know what, if anything, that means. He was a bad person and someone beat his head in for it. I don’t know what emotion I’m supposed to feel right now. After that death, I have to check on other patients and then it’s time for rounds. I check the monitor in my patient’s room; the blips and numbers on the screen flash at me, but in between the flow of reality, the image of the man with the swastika on his neck pops in my head.
I’m standing in a small crowd of doctors as Mandel is talking. The whole time I can hear him while I also see the man at his death. I should be happy for this; I should be at least a little enthused that a degenerate scumbag like him is gone. But no sense of vengeance, anger, or happiness lends itself to my mood. In that bed he is just--dead. No ideology has perished with him. No extremist faction has been destroyed. There’s no celebration or alleviation by—or of—anyone in the building. Nothing has been accomplished and there’s only the comfort that one less racist, zealot of ignorance exists. This is how the day begins.
Eleanora and I meet for lunch and as I listen to her talk about her day, I realize that in all her time here she must have had days like this one. Though she isn’t anywhere near retirement, I can assume that she, too, has been, at some time, leveled by the sheer weight of the death that happens in the building.
She notices my slumped head and glazed eyes as a sign of baring too many thoughts. When I tell her about the man with the swastika on his neck, she responds with, “There’s no good in that.” Her eyes shift away from me as she revs up her thoughts.
“You know, Lily, from time to time it seems like the world is trying to tear itself apart...and for all I know, it is. But I think people like you and I have something that makes us indispensable.” Her eyes snap back to me, and with a smile on her face, she tells me to ask her what it is, so I ask.
“One word-- preservation.” I lean back, smiling at Eleonara.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” she says, taking a carrot in her hand and biting off the end.
“Would you have helped someone like that, if it were asked of you?”
“Absolutely,” she says through a mouth half full of chewed up carrot. She explains to me that people like us are preservationists. We have a desire to fix the problem. We strive to bolster health in order to secure a safe life for all people. She swallows her food and tells me, “That man you watched die is a destroyer and I’ll bet the people who put him in that bed are destroyers, too. Those kinds of people always have to do harm because they don’t feel they can do any good.”
“That is truly brilliant. Do you have more words of wisdom?” I say with a thick coat of sarcasm.
“Oh, I’m just getting started,” she says, and I laugh a little. I can feel the thistled thoughts being dissolved by our conversation. Eleanora goes on to tell me in a half serious and half jovial tone that I can’t torture myself with morality all day. We do our jobs despite the patient and because we should make it a habit to always try to build people up not, as she says, “Dismantle them” for our own selfish reasons. She speaks like she had practiced this for some time and I lean back, taking comfort in her words and because she is one of a few people who can keep my interest in a conversation. I don’t know if I agree with her sympathetic outlook, but I tell her, “I’m glad that someone has found a positive way to make sense of the evils.” She nods at me, taking another carrot and snapping between her teeth.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and I look up to see Vanessa, who greets me with a smile. I tell her to sit with us but she says she only has a few minutes to chat until she has to get back to the nurses’ station. I ask Vanessa about her day; she says, “It would be going great if it wasn’t for the patients.”
“You should have a session with Dr. Feelings. Then.” I point to Eleanora, who raises a carrot like she’s cheering the idea.
“Oooh, I think I get enough life lessons in one shift to cover me for a year.”
We laugh, and I say, “I don’t know. I’m feeling so good right now I might even go over to see Maddox.” I let out a small laugh, but the others remain silent. Vanessa looks to Eleanora, and all of sudden the mood goes sour. I ask, “What’s wrong?” fearing I’ve made some mistake in my joke. Eleanor senses that Vanessa doesn't want to say anything and tells me, “Lily, he’s gone.”
I look up to Vanessa, expecting to see a smile break over her face as part of a crude joke but she keeps her eyes on Eleanora before she lets her gaze fall to the floor.
“What’s going on...what do you mean he’s gone? Gone where?”
I think of the recent conversation about destroyers and being able to smoothly transition from death, and a whirling set of thoughts begins to spin in my head.
Vanessa is the first to speak, and says, “He checked out, Lily. Didn’t you know?” Here her voice inflects to sound like it was my fault for not knowing. As if any fault were able to be placed. Eleanora quickly speaks up as I mutter in confusion.
“Maddox left of his own accord, with no provocation from anyone. He was fine, so he checked out.”
I try to think of the right thing to say in the moment but the thought burns out as I repeat their words in my head. They both thought I knew about Maddox’s leaving. All this time spent on his behalf and he didn’t even have the fucking decency to be in the building. I feel Vanessa put her hand on my shoulder again, this time as a comfort, and though I want to cast it off, I hold it for the sake of the moment. This isn’t the place where I freak out. And even as I sit here in this misery, I know this realization isn’t enough to warrant the emotion. I watched a neo-Nazi die today; what the fuck do I care if another asshole goes back on the streets.
That’s how I play the situation off, I laugh a fake laugh for Vanessa and Eleanora’s sake. Now we can move on. If I were really good at this, I could make some joke, but instead I’m left wondering why Maddox is still weighing heavy on my mind. The rest of the conversation runs on platitudes and assumptions, the kind of pick-me-up nonsense people say to you when they just want the situation to end.
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