“She’s starting to confront her mortality.”
“You could say that.” Maria took in a breath, and I could tell she was definitely smoking. “She spent most of last week in a suicidal rage, telling me she didn’t want to go like this, and it isn’t fair, and she’s afraid of what’s going to happen after she dies—she goes, ‘What if hell is just the worst parts of your life, over and over?’ She’s really freaked out about dying. And I’ve got to say, so am I. You know, I signed up for this class at school called ‘Grief and Grieving,’ and let me tell you, Janice, I do not know what I’m going to do when this kid goes. I’ve been walking around like I’m all fine and dandy, got everything under control, but I know I am not going to be able to handle losing her. I’m going to fall apart.”
Scary to hear Maria say it, in her matter-of-fact way—She’s going to die, and it’s probably going to kill me, too. Maria may have been younger than I, but ever since Jodi had had to back away, I’d still counted on her to be the primary adult in the situation, the sober professional with all the clinical experience. If Maria—tough, capable, pragmatic Maria—was going to fall apart, what was going to happen to me? “I know. Me too.”
But for the meantime, the prognosis was okay—Sam was en route to the rehab hospital in Westchester, where she’d have teenage roommates, and arts and crafts, and a therapist to help her deal with what she was going through. The place had a good reputation, Maria told me. “And as for afterward, if she does recover enough for them to release her, I think we might have a short-term plan—I’m thinking of letting her stay with me for a few weeks, until I go away for the holidays, and then we’ll see where we go from there.”
“Wow.” Just as I was thinking about cutting down on seeing Sam, Maria was talking about taking her in. The old jealousy, that tug-of-war feeling, sparked in my breast—Sam was closer to Maria than to me. I’d have to yank her arm to drag her back over toward my side. Instead, I put up my hands and let her go. “That’s great,” I said. “That’s so huge of you.”
Puff. “Oh, believe me, I wish there was another alternative. I can’t even imagine taking her on full-time. But if we can’t work things out with the social worker at this new hospital, and there’s really no other way, at least we have a backup plan.”
Thank god, again; thank god times infinity for Maria. Thank god, thank Jesus Christ, thank Jesus Colón. She was Maria, the Virgin Mother of Sam. “You’re a saint,” I told her.
Two days later, I got on a Westchester-bound train at Grand Central, on my way to the new hospital. I’d spoken to Sam the night before—she was enjoying her new surroundings, getting to know her roommates, excited about playing wheelchair basketball in the gym. “I’m real glad you’re coming to visit,” she said. “I feel like it’s been forever since I seen you.”
“I know.” Ugh. I felt a pang of guilt, then a sliver of resentment. Reminded myself: I didn’t do anything wrong. I went on my honeymoon. She wanted me to go. I didn’t abandon her. “I can’t wait to see you.”
It should have been true—we hadn’t seen each other in a week and a half, which was an eternity in Janice and Sam time. And yet I realized, watching the passing scenery from my window seat, the longer I went without seeing her, the more okay I felt about not seeing her. Weird. I used to get so antsy if she wasn’t in touch; now I flinched when the phone rang. And then answered it: “Hi there! Just thinking about you.” I was nervous about the visit. I didn’t want Sam to sense how I was feeling, didn’t want her to know that I was grateful for the distance of the hospital, the length of the train trip. Didn’t want her to know that something had changed in me.
Do you feel different? she’d asked me the day after the wedding.
Yeah. I felt different.
I arrived at the hospital, asked for her at the front desk, and found her room down a corridor lined with children’s artwork, passing kids scooting by on crutches, in wheelchairs, bald. I came into her room—big, airy, with three other beds, and throw rugs on the floor—smiling my widest smile. “Hey!”
“Hey!” She was sitting in her wheelchair by the window; she gave it an expert shove and twisted to face me. “Whoa, look how tan you got!”
“Oh, you should have seen me when we got back on Sunday.” I stooped and kissed the top of her head. “And check you out—you’re getting really good on those wheels.”
She smiled at her lap, smug. “It’s kind of like a skateboard, in a lot of ways.” She tilted back, executed a few more sharp turns on her back wheels. “I’m looking forward to not needing it soon.”
“Yeah, this is great—it looks like you’re really recovering.” I eyed her warily, following her chair over to her part of the room, where I pulled up a chair of my own. She looked good. She’d put on a few pounds again, and her color was back. The one eye still lagged behind the other, but if you didn’t know to look for it, it might take you a minute to notice. More than that, she looked energetic, like the old days; she seemed raring to go.
“I am. I mean, I still feel real weak a lot of the time, especially if I walk a lot. But the doctors say the infection’s getting better—even though my T cells are practically gone, the drugs are fighting it off, and the antivirals are finally getting a chance to work. At least my viral load’s gone down.” She looked up at me with her wide eyes—Aren’t you proud of me?
“That’s great news. Speaking of which, did they assign you a primary doctor? I was hoping I’d get a chance to speak to somebody today, or…”
She shrugged one shoulder. “They don’t really have primary doctors here the way they did in the Bronx. But I’ll ask who you should speak to—it’s probably Dr. Eng, or Dr. Gambine. I’ll find out, and I’ll have them call you.”
“Okay. Or I’ll call them. Or…is either of them around right now?”
“Um, I don’t think so. Probably not.” She twisted her chair around again. “Hey, so do you want me to show you around?”
I followed Sam’s chair into the hallway, trying not to show my irritation. I wanted to speak to someone, already, now that I had the health-care proxy; I wanted an actual medical professional to tell me what was going on. I’d had enough of pumping aides and technicians for answers—“Why are they doing another MRI?” “Did she eat anything today?” I was tired of trying to look things up online. The Internet was a lousy doctor.
Sam started giving me the tour, guiding me down the hall. “It’s pretty cool here. I like it, so far. I wish some of my roommates were around. This one girl Kyla’s all right. She’s only, like, fifteen, and she has leukemia—this is the fourth or fifth time she’s had to stay here for chemo. But they have, like, a school and teachers here, for the kids, and she works her butt off at it, ’cause she really wants to be able to graduate with all her friends and go to the prom and everything. Which is sad, because she’s probably not gonna make it.”
She hung a sharp left, leaving a short black skid mark on the tiled floor. “Okay, this ramp here takes you to the gym. Over there they got a pool and a whirlpool; they use it for physical therapy, but I can’t go in, ’cause it’s too dangerous, ’cause of the bacteria. And there’s Tommy. Hi, Tommy!” A young kid wrapped in bandages cruised by on a motorized wheelchair. Sam dropped her voice. “He knocked over a candle and set his house on fire; he’s covered in third-degree burns. His younger sister died. He’s the sweetest thing. Everybody loves him.”
We navigated through the doors to a grassy courtyard, and Sam parked in the sun. It was warm for early October; it felt like summer again—the summer we’d missed, indoors at Mid-Bronx Hospital for weeks at a time. “So,” she said, facing me.
“So,” I said. “So…”
Strange—there seemed to be nothing to say. We’d covered her health, her doctors, her new surroundings; now I couldn’t think of anything to talk about. So, how’s that whole “confronting your mortality” thing going? Still in an existential panic over your imminent death? This was supposed to be my moment as a mentor, where I sa
id something profound and meaningful, where she let go of her terrible burden and cried to me and I comforted her. Instead, there was an awkward pause.
“Did you watch The Amazing Race the other night?” she asked. “It’s so stupid, the family edition—they should have just kept it regular.”
“Oh, yeah,” I agreed, and we talked about TV for a while, until we hit a dead end and she tried a new tack.
“And…did you read the new Augusten Burroughs book yet? I want to read it, if you get it.”
“Well, maybe I’ll bring a copy next time I see you.”
My leg was bouncing, I realized; it took effort to stop it. Sam flicked the brake of her chair on and off with her foot. “Did Maria tell you I’m gonna go live with her?”
I raised an internal eyebrow at her characterization of Maria’s offer. “She mentioned you might stay with her for a few weeks, if push comes to shove.”
She grinned at me. “I hope it works out. That would be so awesome. You know what’s cool, this place isn’t so far from her house. I think she’s coming by later, if you can stay that long.”
“I can’t,” I said, feigning regret. “I have, uh, a lot of work to catch up on.”
“Oh.” She wheeled around a little, gazed off toward the end of the courtyard, marked by a brick wall with a Dumpster in front of it. “That’s cool.”
I stayed for a while longer, talking about books and movies and Disney World. I asked about Valentina. “Did she ever call you, tell you where she wound up?”
Sam’s eyes flashed. “Fuck Valentina. She ran out on me when I was real sick. I never want to see his ugly ass again.”
Discomfiting, to see her snarl like that about her former friend. I thought of Sam and Valentina mucking around in the Bronx River, playing King of the Stairs at the halfway house; how they jabbered that day we found their apartment—“I want to put stars on the ceiling.” “No, mirrors!” I hoped Valentina was all right, wherever she was. “I understand.”
Soon I pulled out the train schedule and the number of the local taxi. “Well, I’d better be heading back—looks like there’s a six o’clock train, and then nothing for an hour….”
Sam slumped in her chair, crestfallen. “Already? ’Cause there was some stuff I wanted to talk to you about….”
“Oh yeah?” I put on what I hoped was a patient smile. “What’s that?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged, like she was reluctant to get specific, started picking at stray threads around her pants pockets. “Just stuff I been thinking about. Stuff from my past.”
“Uh-huh.” Goddamn it, I thought. We didn’t have time to get into “stuff from her past” right now; she should have brought that up an hour ago. “It must be hard, huh.”
“Yeah.” She looked up and met my eyes, the dull one wandering before it could fix on mine. “I mean, I’m still wondering, what if I’d done things different? Like, I always tried to bleach my needles, but what about those times I didn’t? I keep thinking if I could go back…”
“Uh-huh.” I had my hand on my phone, ready to call the cab. “But you know, we have to think about the future—there’s a lot to look forward to.”
Wow. That could not have sounded more hollow if I’d said it through an empty paper-towel tube. What was wrong with me today? I couldn’t seem to muster the usual urgency, the overwhelming concern I needed to feel for her. This was Sam, I reminded myself; she was dying. I was supposed to feel anguished at the thought. Instead I felt fed up.
I faked another smile. Sam stared at me, frustrated. “I’m trying to stay positive,” she said. “It’s just hard, is all.”
“I know. But right now, you’re doing so much better—I have to say, it’s great to see you with so much energy, and…” And I had to call my cab now. I had to go home, call Bill, smoke a joint, make dinner. “Hang on,” I said, interrupting myself. “Just let me call the cab so they’re on their way.”
Sam folded her arms and tucked her chin to her chest as I dialed and made the arrangements. “Ten minutes? Okay. And do you think I’ll be able to make the six o’clock train to the city? Great, thanks.” I snapped my phone shut. “Okay. Sorry about that.”
She scowled at her lap, arms crossed, as she spoke. “So…when are you coming back?”
In previous days, I would have been charmed by her pouting, flattered by how much she needed me; now I was annoyed, and angry at myself for feeling that way. “I’ll come back next week, how about that? I’ll check my schedule, and we’ll pick a day. And this time, I’ll make sure I can stay a little longer, okay?”
She nodded, chin still down. “Okay.”
I rose from my seat, gathered my bag and jacket. “And don’t forget to have your doctor call me. Or tell me who to call. Eng or Gambine, right?”
“I’ll let you know.” She looked like she’d shrunk in her chair, all of her limbs pulled in, her head dropped. “Here, I’ll show you how to get back to the front.”
I followed behind her as she rolled through the halls, quieter this time, going through the same internal tango of relief and guilt that I always went through with her. I professed to love her so much, and yet here I was, practically running down the corridor to get away from her, acting like it was a chore to come see her instead of a rare and extraordinary privilege. I should have been grateful for her presence—I’d be missing it soon enough—but right now, I couldn’t wait to get home.
We made one last turn, and I was at the front door.
“Okay,” said Sam, her voice small. “I guess I’ll talk to you soon?”
“Of course you will.” I leaned down and kissed her on the top of her head again, like a blessing. “And you know, you can call me anytime.”
“I know.” She picked up her head and tried to smile at me, making her jut-chinned brave face. “Well, thanks so much for coming, Janice, it always makes my day.”
“Mine too.” A cab rolled up to the curb outside, and I opened the front door, feeling the rush of the fresh air. “I’ll talk to you soon.”
Bye, she waved, as I stepped outside and into the taxi. Then she spun around on her wheels, and we both rolled away.
I got the message the next day.
“Hi, Janice, it’s Maria. Listen, I just heard from the nurses at Westchester—Sam crashed again this morning, spiked a really high fever, vomiting, so they moved her back to the hospital in the Bronx. We should be able to see her tomorrow. I’ll let you know if I hear anything else, and please call me if anybody calls you. Take care. I’ll talk to you soon.”
Not this again. I closed my phone, feeling the rage and frustration rippling through my body, like my muscles were expanding, ready to burst through my skin. I couldn’t do this anymore. There was no way I could go back to the hospital in the Bronx. I physically could not get on that train, with the brakes shrieking as it pulled out of Union Square; I couldn’t take that ride, trying not to count the stops, trying to steady my breathing when the train stopped between stations, as it always had to do, because god forbid it should just take me to my dying friend in the hospital, without stopping for a little break every now and then.
Bill was drying off after his shower the next morning, and I was doing my sit-ups, except today they were more like lie-backs—I was just lying there on the bedroom floor, completely lacking the will to move.
“I can’t take this anymore,” I called to Bill, eyes staring unfocused at the white ceiling. It looked so peaceful up there, uninterrupted and blank. “I’m serious. I can’t.”
Bill came into the bedroom, towel in hand, stood sadly in the doorway. “Oh, babe,” he sighed.
My face crinkled into a crying face, but I couldn’t even cry anymore. It was insincere. I wasn’t sad, I was angry. At whom, I didn’t know. At Sam’s doctors, for not catching it sooner; at our government, for not taking this disease seriously years ago so we could have a cure by now. At Sam, as unfair as that was; I was mad at Sam, for being so sick.
I’m going to nail down th
e doctors today, I decided, and swung my torso to meet my knees. There it was—action. Action was what I needed. Eleven, twelve…Fuck Dr. F. and her vacation and “Oh, I don’t know if it’s Eng or Gambine”—today I was going right up to the nurses’ station, and I was going to bitch at everybody in a lab coat until someone told me something I could use. Thirty-three, thirty-four…I needed a deadline. A literal deadline. A line that demarcated when she was going to die.
Fifty.
It was this selfish, macabre, unconscionable thought that propelled me forward that morning; the only thing that got me through my shower, through getting dressed, to kissing Bill good-bye.
“Let me know what the doctors say,” he said, his eyes drooping with the forecasted bad news. “And tell her…hang in there, from me.”
“I will.” I tucked my head into his chest for another hug. “I love you, babe.”
“I love you, too.”
Hang in there. But I didn’t want her to hang in there, I thought, as the train shucked and lurched uptown. I wanted her to let go.
A few autumn leaves were starting to fall from the trees, I noticed, walking the familiar blocks from the subway to the hospital, though most of the leaves were still hanging on. Hanging in there. It had been a warm fall, so far; the leaves weren’t so much bursting with autumnal color as they were giving up, turning pale yellow and dropping indifferently to the ground. Soon there would be a frost, snow on the ground; how many seasons would I see from the window of her hospital room?
My breath was coming shallow and fast in the elevator. Calm down, I told myself. I couldn’t let her see how distraught I was over this latest setback, how little I wanted to be there today; I had to project warmth, love, and acceptance. I smeared a haphazard smile on my face, like cheap lipstick on a crazy woman. I hoped she’d be sleeping.
But it was even better than that—I opened the door to her new room, and she wasn’t there. One of the orderlies I recognized from her last stay was changing the garbage. “How you doin’ today?” he said, nodding to me. “Your girl’s downstairs getting a test, should be back in a half hour or so.”
Have You Found Her Page 29