She nodded slowly, as if seriously considering every word I said.
"One other thing really bothers me, though."
"What?" she asked, her light brown skin getting paler by the second.
"There is no way you can be twenty-five years old."
Dess burst out laughing, her body visibly relaxing. "Thanks. I guess it runs in the family. My mom's from Mexico and my dad's from the Philippines, and nobody was ever able to guess their age."
I thought about him again, the beautiful man whom she called Rios. He certainly seemed like he had a combination of Mexican and Filipino features. They just had to be related.
Only one way to find out.
"Dess…?"
She looked at me, her almond-shaped eyes suddenly round in question.
"Who is that guy who used to pick you up from work? Is he… uh, your brother, or…?" I let my sentence trail off.
She understood instantly, and it showed in her smile. "That pain-in-the-ass? Yeah, he's my little brother. Everyone else calls him Ree." She paused, looking me over. "He's available."
My cheeks felt warm. "That's not why I was asking. I kinda thought you guys were married," I confessed, scooching down on my bed, wishing I could disappear.
She smiled and laughed good-naturedly, giving me a quick hug. "Well, time to go."
That made me feel a little sad. "Thanks for the flowers."
"No problem."
Silence.
"Are you coming back tomorrow?" I asked hopefully.
"Of course. Right after work. So… maybe about 5:15. You can time me."
"I will, actually."
"Well… have a great night. Get some sleep."
"I will, thanks. You too." A minute ago we were talking about heaven and hell, and suddenly we were back to our small talk. So, how about those Mariners? Some crazy weather we're having, huh?
Another moment of silence, then Dess leaned in to give me a quick hug. I surprised myself with how tightly I hugged her back. It had been such a long time since I've felt a real connection with anybody.
"See ya," she said, taking up her little black backpack purse.
"Bye," I called after her as she went out the door.
When she was gone, I leaned my head back and laughed to myself.
I can't even go to the hospital without some type of drama following me.
Erica came by later to bring me dinner, take me walking around the hospital, and to take my half-empty (or half-full, depending on how you look at it) dinner plate away, all in that order.
The spinach fettuccine with grilled chicken wasn't bad at all. I certainly didn't want to finish it, but I ate half at least. It was by far the best hospital food I'd eaten yet, but that wasn't saying much. It was akin to eating the yummiest food out of any given dumpster.
She took me walking—with my IV and everything—down the hall and back. It felt good to be using my muscles again, but the feeling was so surreal. Was it less than a week ago that I was at home by myself, in full 1980's slut costume, horny and lonely?
I also noticed that she had thrown on an ugly scrub jacket and was making less eye contact with me. I half wondered if she now thought I was a lesbian because of Dess' visit, and if she now hoped to look less attractive so as not to bring the unwanted attention of an obviously deranged pervert such as myself.
However, it was all very confusing to me. What attributed to the sudden change of demeanor on Erica's part? She had poked in her head a couple times when Dess was sitting right there, and Erica seemed perky and chipper, as usual. What changed since then?
My hospital slippers slapped slowly and pitifully as we walked quietly down the hall. Erica suddenly seemed interested in talking about one of the hospital benefactor's rags-to-riches story. Don't get me wrong; I would have loved to listen to it back in my room as I tried to fall asleep. It was way cheaper than a sleeping pill, and had less side effects, unless you counted homicidal thoughts.
It occurred to me that Erica wasn't the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, and therefore probably didn't even know Dess was gay just by looking at her (I hadn't known either, but then, I really didn't care one way or another). Curiously, I turned my head and looked at Erica, tuning her out all the while. A name suddenly popped in my head: Dr. Hearse. Dess had declared her sexuality right in front of him. Maybe Erica and Dr. Hearse ran into each other in the hall or something, and he'd revealed all. But aren't doctors required to keep their traps shut? Then again, Dess wasn't his patient, so maybe that confidentiality what-you-call didn't apply here.
As another possibility, maybe they met up in the janitor's closet for a quickie, and he happened to mention Dess to Erica before he pulled down her ugly paper pants and tore her panties off. Judging from the way Dr. Hearse had looked at Dess—lesbian or no lesbian—I truly thought he was going to burst out of his pants. Not that I was checking out his crotch area, mind you. His pesky, nosy demeanor made him a lot less cute in my eyes.
But none of that really mattered to me. So I had a gay visitor. So what? Erica probably got hit on every hour of every day. What did it matter if she thought Dess might have hit on her? It was a ridiculous idea anyhow, because Dess was probably a lot more interested in the wall socket than she was in Erica.
Why did people have to be so homophobic?
I wanted to come right out and tell Erica that lesbians were no different from her and me. Erica and I both liked men, but we didn't like every man that came along (well, maybe she did; I didn't really know her all that well). Dess liked women, but I seriously doubted that she liked every woman she met. She wasn't a pervert. I would almost go so far as to say she was normal, but, I thought, smiling to myself, that didn't seem to describe her at all either.
We returned to my room and she took my dinner tray away, commenting on how even though I did a 'good job' with the pasta, she sure wished I had cleaned my plate more. I made no comment but wondered what Dess would have said if she were there. Maybe something along the lines of I'm sure Morgue would love to clean a plate with actual food on it. Are there any?
Erica said good night to the wall and left. She couldn't leave fast enough. I wished I could call Dess and have her bring an issue of Playboy or something for me to ominously leave lying somewhere. I could even pretend to get all flustered when Erica saw it.
How I wished I had Dess' number.
It was almost 9 o'clock by that time. I felt much more stable in my mind, heart, and body after having had good company, eaten some halfway decent food, and had a little exercise. Settling down in my infamous cardboard bed after peeing all by myself in my adjoining restroom—quite an accomplishment, I'd say—I turned on my room TV for the first time.
Some lame sitcom with predictable sexual innuendos was on. I rolled my eyes but watched it anyway as it starred a yummy-looking hunk. I put the remote down and watched reluctantly, my arms crossing over my chest as I leaned my head back.
I shook my head as if trying to dislodge the memory of all that had happened, and the significance of it all. First, Friend tells me he's an angel and gives me crazy advice that I never asked for. Then, Dess, who I don't know really well, comes to visit me and tell me that she is a member of the God Generation.
Now it appeared that I was to help her. But help her do what? Organize or construct her mind room? How would that help her? And how would I even do it in the first place? If she was an ex-god, did that mean I was an aide to the righteous, a good person deep down inside? What if she was an evil god? For some reason, I wanted to cry, but I didn't. Instead, I sighed and looked at the ceiling, a strange, small feeling of peace threatening to take over my heart.
I looked at the upper corner of the room, where the TV hung. The same stupid sitcom was on. A young couple was making dinner and the woman made a sexual comment about the cherry pie she was baking. Really? Don't people get tired of watching recycled crap?
I turned off the TV and tried to go to sleep, curling up as best as I could with that IV in
my arm. I closed my eyes and tried to relax, not thinking about a girl from work who used to be a god or a ditsy nurse who was reluctant to be around me. Instead, for once, I thought about myself.
I pulled up a mental list of some of my life's events as a tinge of sadness flowed through my veins. Among them were the many times my mother accused me of being loose and worshipping the devil, Adim beating me up and telling me I deserved it, the immeasurable amounts of ecstasy I'd ingested, the casual and often demeaning sex I endured both with Adim and with others, some of the girls at work gossiping about anything and everything they thought they knew about me, including the way I lacked friends or close relationships of any kind… the list went on and on.
Once I'd started living on my own, I'd stopped attending the church that kept telling me how sinful and terrible I was. I could be accusatory of myself without any outside aid, thank you very much.
What did it all mean? What would happen to me when I died? Does this mean my mother was right about how evil I was, or did it mean that all her small-minded theories went out the window? After all I'd experienced spiritually, nothing has really changed. I still didn't know where I belonged, or if I was even deserving of happiness at all.
Dess seemed to think I was a person who helped humans that were gods in a past life, which basically translated to me being a god's helper. Could that be possible? What did that mean for me, for my soul? Was I an agent of heaven, or an agent of hell?
Was I damned, or meant for greatness?
Chapter 7
Adim's thoughts…
Ice Cube woke me up, rapping about how I should go to church.
Pissed off, I kept my eyes closed and stuck my arm out, hoping to find my cell phone by pure luck. Moving my hand randomly, it fell instead on something warm, soft, and inviting.
Oh, yeah. Megan.
She always talked too damn much, but there was something about her I really liked, something familiar. She had soft, fair skin and long dark hair, and was so obviously head over heels in love with me that I could forgive her for having faults.
Still refusing to open my eyes, I pulled my right arm in and shifted my body so I could stick out my left arm out to the other side of me. Sleeping on your stomach can be a real pain in the ass, especially when you're sleeping on top of the blanket and the chick you were in bed with was tucked in underneath it.
I never slept with a blanket. Never needed to.
My fingers touched something cold, flat, and rectangular. Relieved, I picked up my phone and turned off its song alarm. Still holding onto it, I tried to return to whatever dream had me feeling… frisky. I changed positions again and ran my hand up Megan's arm.
She muttered something, grabbed my hand, and threw it back over to me.
She was probably about to get her rag. What other possible reason could she have for not wanting to fuck me?
I surrendered to the morning and sat up, opening my eyes and tried to remember what I had to do today. Confusion began to set in as I noticed some strange things: My nightstand had moved several inches closer to the bed. Also, someone had changed my curtains to a purple color.
Oh, yeah. I was at Megan's house.
That thought led to another one: Her husband was coming home today from his Georgia trip.
Shit.
What time did she say his flight was coming in?
I didn't want to wait to find out. Besides, my brain was wide-awake by now, and I'd just remembered that I had official business to handle today. Property to reclaim. Already took the day off from work to handle it.
I found my boxers right next to the bed, my slacks by the bathroom, and my shirt on her living room couch. I scrambled around, putting on each item as I found them.
Did I have a tie? I couldn't remember. Where the fuck were my shoes?
Absentmindedly, I felt my chin. I needed a shave. Well, there was no time for that because I had to drive to Lynnwood, and I was in Everett this morning instead of the usual Edmonds.
I grabbed my phone and eventually found my car keys on Megan's kitchen table. Stumbling, I managed to find and put on my socks and shoes. No time to brush my teeth. Hell, I didn't have a toothbrush with me anyway. Screw it.
I found Megan's purse on her kitchen counter and opened it, hoping to find some gum that would help get rid of my corpse breath. Instead, I found one of those breath-strip pieces of crap that puts your mouth on fire so bad, you'd rather down an entire bottle of Tapatio. Goddamnit. I could buy some coffee which would mask my breath, but there wasn't time for that shit. I braced myself and put it one of those damn strips on my tongue.
I stopped and gasped for breath for a few moments. It was like tripping on LSD.
Cursing and gasping, I happened to see a $100 bill wedged in between two tampons at the bottom of Megan's purse. I smiled to myself and said that I certainly deserved $100 for my performance last night in bed. She didn't say so, but I could tell. I can always tell when chicks love what I do.
I tucked the bill into my pocket and hurried out the back door, not caring to close it behind me. I kind of hoped Megan's husband would find it that way when he came home, and I especially hoped he'd find the discarded condom that I purposely left displayed in the bathroom trash. Then he would get miserable and divorce his bitch wife.
Hey, it'd be a favor to her. What chick would want to fuck anyone else after they'd slept with me, anyway?
I smiled to myself as I hopped in my SUV and sped away towards Lynnwood.
* * *
I parked my SUV on the street, observing the action across the street very carefully.
Just as I was informed, Morgan Constantina was being wheeled out of Virginia Mason Lynnwood in a wheelchair by some weird-looking chick. A lesbian, it looked like.
I was ashamed to admit that for a short time I'd forgotten that I even had a girlfriend. But not too long ago, I was doing laundry (ridiculous that I should have to do my own) and I'd found a shirt of mine that Morgan loved wearing all the time. As I held it in my hand, I thought of and remembered her, so I took the time to ask my connections about her situation.
Good thing, too—apparently, she'd been in the hospital. She'd believed I was out of her life for good and had tried to kill herself because she couldn't live without me. And here I'd been living the single life, fucking whoever I wanted and leaving a trail of broken hearts behind me. Well, I'd make it up to her.
I observed the scene as she talked endlessly with the weirdo, deeply engrossed in conversation. Morgan was dressed all emo or some shit—just like that other girl. I have never seen her dress in that ugly shit before. Why was she wearing that? Suddenly, the lezz stopped short, saying something to Morgan, and they turned themselves around and went back inside the hospital.
I got out of the car after checking my visor mirror, smiling at what I saw in it. It would be impossible for any woman to resist this vision of perfection.
I jaywalked across the street and jogged into the hospital lobby, spotting Morgan and her lesbo friend right away. They were both faced away from me, the lezz stooping down on the floor.
I snuck up behind them and listened to as much of their conversation as I could.
"…spent almost fifteen bucks on these flowers, and we're not leaving them behind. It's my fault for putting them here on the floor before I went to the restroom," the lezz was saying.
"I told you to let me hold them. Why are you so stubborn? Haven't I proven myself by dressing like a little Dess clone?" Morgan whined.
"Hey, now. I gave you the least offensive, most boring clothes I could find. If nobody sees the skulls on your butt, those jeans look normal, and that red vinyl jacket makes you look like you stepped out of the Matrix. And the next time you get admitted to the hospital, try not to be naked," the lezz shot back.
"There you are, baby!" I said, putting on a charming smile. The poor thing was probably thirsty, and the only thing that could quench her thirst would be a vision of me. "No one called me. I've been so worr
ied."
The lezz turned Morgan's chair around so they could both face me. Nobody spoke for a little while. My girlfriend probably needed some time to enjoy seeing my face again, and the lezz probably grew afraid that I was way too much competition for her.
"Let's go, Dess," Morgan said, standing up slowly, not looking directly at me. She was probably avoiding eye contact with me because she was ashamed she'd forgotten to call me. I could forgive her for that, eventually. Later I'd have to show her how she had disappointed me, but first I wanted to take her back home.
"Whoa there, babe," I told my girlfriend, putting my arm around her to support her. "Let me help you." Morgan yanked her arm out of my grip. Being in the hospital must have traumatized her.
I looked over at the lezz named Dess. She just stood there giving me a dirty look. I hovered my hands over Morgan's midsection and told the lezz, "All of this is mine, so you need to back off, bro," I told her cheerily. "I was hitting this way before you started groping and doing her."
She ignored me and walked around me, holding Morgan by her arm and the stupid flowers in the other. I put my face right up in Morgan's and asked her, "Do you want me to get rid of this dyke, babe? You don't want this trash hanging around, do you?"
I suddenly got shoved back a couple feet. Shocked, I looked over at Lezz Dess, my assailant. Incredibly embarrassed, I walked back to where I had been standing and shouted, "That was totally uncalled for! Just leave us good people alone!" I started to take Morgan's arm again.
Lezz Dess calmly walked up to my face. By now the entire hospital lobby was watching our little show. "Jackass, we're just friends, not that it's any of your business, and she doesn't want a coward loser who beats up chicks." She stopped and looked around the lobby. "I wonder if there are police nearby. You could be arrested, you know. The doctors here have all the evidence they need."
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