“Things are good?” Maricarmen asks, about the IV.
“Things are fine,” I say. “Just part of the protocol.”
“And so no delivery man.”
Fuck. I don’t want to talk in front of Lydia, but I can’t shut up when Mari’s around.
“No deliveries at all,” I say, hoping she’ll get the hint.
“Okay, you don’t want to talk right now,” Mari says. “I just worry you keep the drama bottled up, you know?”
“There’s no drama,” I tell Lidia.
“I love drama,” Lidia says. “That’s why I became a nurse. You know the soap General Hospital? I swear I worked there.”
“You could have,” Mari says, “those fancy clothes.”
I don’t get it: why isn’t she picking up my distress signals?
Lydia says, “I wasn’t allowed to dress this way at the hospital. I lived in scrubs. Part of the reason I took this job was because they let me wear pants that fit.…”
While she’s talking Mari comes to me, leans over, and whispers, “Her pants are ugly.” So we’re fine.
As they bullshit about where to get discount deals on designer fashions, Mari filling in what would certainly have been my silence, I think of my uniform. I rarely wear it anymore, and it fits the way wearing a size medium fits instead of a size six. But there’s a comfort in it; an identity. I would miss being able to wear it.
Pretty soon all I can think about is how uncomfortable I am in the pants I’m wearing. Thanks to the steroids, I’m no six. “Are we almost done?”
Maricarmen must think the question is for her because she says, “Okay, okay, let me go kiss the baby.”
When Mari goes to Isabel, Lidia begins to remove the IV, still talking as though I’d been in on the conversation—
“… Things move so fast, there’s no time to think, let alone get to know your patients. Half the time I only knew who was who by the billing code.” She disconnects the catheter and starts packing up. “I do miss the drama, though.”
“Wish I had some for you.” If only she knew.
Lidia puts a business card on the table, her phone number handwritten on the back. “You’ve got the Complete Care information already, but here’s my cell in case anything comes up in the next twenty-four hours. Please, call me directly. Otherwise the service will kick you to the first available nurse—”
Maricarmen comes back through and says, “I’m going,” holding up a hand to God on her way to the front door.
“I’m right behind you,” Lidia says, taking her briefcase and her tamales.
I get up. I say, “See you tomorrow,” but I don’t bother following because they’re at the door and Maricarmen’s already shifted gears—
“You take those tamales out of the husks and heat them in a pan with oil—” she says, right before the door latches and locks.
I set the alarm and then I convince Isabel to ditch Disney in favor of tamales and a bath. She loves the tub. She loves to kick and splash and she really loves these stupid rubber fish I bought, especially since she discovered they can squirt bathwater great distances. She always aims for me.
After tonight’s bath we’re both soaked so after I put Isabel in a nightgown I change into a tank and running shorts—psyching myself up for a workout later, or else setting myself up for a guilt trip—and then I disarm the back door for the dove’s nest.
It’s nice outside; a breeze came in with the evening, and the neighbor’s wind chimes plink and ting. I sight check the yard below. I tell myself Marble is three states away by now, if he has any sense. And if he doesn’t, my Ruger is in the closet.
See how I try for balance?
“Aypane!”
Isabel decides the first plane she sees tonight is going to California, and so tonight Jezebel Pickle flies to San Francisco to help a goldfish find his way home. The problem with the goldfish is that his memory only lasts a minute—yes, this one’s based on today’s trip with Kay St. Claire. Jezebel and the fish stop for directions at a cheap noodle shop in Chinatown, where a chocolate-covered fortune cookie tells their fate.
Isabel doesn’t know what fate is and so decides its name is George. She often chooses George to be the sidekick—the funny, flighty character who makes all kinds of mistakes but still manages to save the day. It breaks my heart when Isabel brings him into the story. It’s really hard for me to make George a hero, let alone a fate.
I give the lost fish a home, a nice little bowl next to a nice little girl’s bed, and get Isabel into her own bed. Then, instead of a workout, I head for the kitchen. Chinatown made me hungry.
I find canned green beans, frozen peas, and fries. I wonder what Andy could whip together, the Vitamix. I cook all three separately.
While I wait, I read an article in the Trib about Blue Cross/Blue Shield breaching member contracts by paying executives millions in bonuses. Boy that would piss me off, paying a monthly premium to make sure I can afford to get sick and then finding out I’m actually paying some rich asshole’s greens fees.
I’m thanking the CPD stars for good employee health care benefits when the phone rings. It’s Metzler. Finally.
“Regina.”
“Have you been hiding from me?”
“Certainly not. I was simply giving you the day to reflect, and to realize that it doesn’t matter what anybody says you can or can’t do; you will do what you want.”
“Limited release wasn’t what you promised.”
“I didn’t promise. We agreed: you take care of yourself, I get you back to work.”
“I am taking care of myself. My boss told me to go home today.”
“A witch doctor wouldn’t be so dumb as to send you straight back to the street. You were injured. You need time.”
“Listen: if you make me take time, I’m going to have a lot more trouble than a numb foot. Please, I’ve got to go back to work. I’ve got to set this one case straight. Then I’ll take as much time as you say.”
“I want you to finish the steroid treatment. Start your medication. Then come see me at my office, and I’ll clear you.”
“You aren’t listening.”
“Neither are you.”
“Oh, I hear you. You’re saying I’m on my own.” I hang up and get one of the two beers.
When the food’s ready, I can’t eat. I drink the beer, though, and open the other one; I usually don’t have two but I used to drink gin on the regular, the feel of it on my tongue the first indication of a smooth buzz. I miss that buzz. I’m going for it.
I take the bottle into the still-wet bathroom along with the Avonex box and the complimentary sharps container. I run my own bath and soak while rereading the injection instructions. Yes, I’m going to have a hell of a drug hangover. But tomorrow, I’ll feel better doing what I’m not supposed to do if I’ve already done what Metzler wants me to do. Yes, again, that’s balance.
The syringes are pre-filled now, which is supposed to make taking the drug less of a hassle. I’ll admit I kind of liked assembling the shot, before—mixing the powder with the solution, filling the syringe and locking the needle—it was mental preparation. Now, sitting on the tub ledge with the syringe ready to go, I just can’t do it. I tell myself to relax and at the very least my left leg should, it’s been trouble since I fell, but my quad is locked up, resistant. I finish the beer and shut my eyes and hold my breath and I’m right about to do it. But I don’t.
I take a breath. I swab my skin. I am not afraid of needles. I count to three. I think about Isabel counting all the way to seven. I start the count again.
The doorbell rings on two.
I cap the syringe and shove it into the Avonex box and shove the box in the cabinet. I put the beer bottle in there, too.
I pull on my shorts and shirt and eat some toothpaste and put my hair up and use hand sanitizer because I figure that will confuse any smell of alcohol on my breath.
The bell rings again; I hurry up so Isabel won’t wake.
&
nbsp; The bell rings again anyway, just as I’m getting to the door. I try not to sound irritated when I ask, “Who’s there?”
“It’s Ray Weiss.”
I wish I’d disguised my voice. I wish I could tell him I’m not home. I wish I could cover my eyes and become invisible.
I disable the alarm and open the door.
“Hi,” he says, and scratches his eyebrow, a reason to look away from my bare legs, my short shorts, me—braless.
“I just stopped by to see how you’re feeling.”
“A little awkward, at the moment.”
“I brought soup.” He offers me a blue box of Mrs. Grass. “Just like my mom used to make. It’s—I don’t know. I like it.”
“Thank you,” I say and then I can’t believe I say, “You want to come in?”
He follows me into the kitchen where I left the beans, peas, and fries on the countertop so I explain, “My niece,” though that doesn’t cover the first empty beer bottle.
“You want something to drink?” As I’m asking I realize all I’ve got now is tap water.
“Thank you, but I can’t stay.”
“You’re on the clock?”
“No.”
“You’re just here to check on me.”
“Yes. I am.”
And I am uneasy.
He shifts on his feet. “Also, I feel like I owe you one.”
“The soup should do it.”
“I’m talking about what I said before, about Soleil. I didn’t know she made your life so difficult. And I’m not owning that—she’s her own mess—but I certainly don’t want to be part of the reason you’re unhappy.”
“Who says I’m unhappy?”
“I didn’t mean—never mind.” He looks at his shoes. “I just wanted to tell you that I went to St. Claire’s this afternoon to see about Johnny Marble. And I got St. Claire to change her mind. She’s decided to press charges.”
There’s no way. “She’s got Alzheimer’s, Weiss. Her mind changes with the minute hand.”
“Well, better her than you. On the stand, I mean.”
“You can’t put her on the stand. She’s a victim, but she’s no witness.”
“She says she wants him found.”
“Of course she does. He’s her son.” I am uneasy. “Anyway, isn’t that your job? To find him?”
“It is. And I will. But putting him away—that’s up to the court, right? I was afraid that without Sanchez’s cooperation, and with St. Claire backing off, that they’d want to rope you in.”
“Iverson already did rope me in.”
“That’s a stupid move. There isn’t an ASA in this city who wouldn’t want to take a shot at a cop on the stand. Especially since the state’s attorney got elected taking a stand against us. I know, I’ve been there. Questioning will be all over the place so it looks like you are, too.” He starts to pace, does a voice, “‘Please tell the court, Ms. Simonetti, how you came into physical contact with the suspect? Would you say you intended to engage him? Is it possible that low lighting in the stairwell may have caused you to misjudge your distance from the suspect? How much do you weigh? Will you demonstrate for the court how, exactly, he obtained your weapon? When was the last time you took firearms training?’” He stops and looks at me. “And you, Gina, with your head injury? And your gun missing? You’re a first-round knockout for any decent state’s attorney.”
“I have no problem taking the stand.” I have to say that.
“I don’t know, I guess I’d worry, too, about what Marble might say when it’s his turn. Because if it’s just you, your word against his, then we’re talking about sympathy over substance of testimony, really—”
“Did you say you came to see how I was feeling or that you came to make me feel shitty?”
“God. I’m sorry. I only wanted—I wanted to help.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Well, maybe St. Claire’s involvement will take the pressure off.”
“I didn’t know there was pressure.”
“Okay … so maybe we just back up and pretend I showed up with soup.” He hikes a thumb toward the bathroom. “Do you mind if I use the head before I go?”
“Go a-head.” It’s not funny, but none of this is.
When he closes the bathroom door I’m afraid I’m going to totally lose my shit so I go out front, the stoop. I’ve been so worried about lying on the stand, I hadn’t thought about the fact that someone might try not to believe me. It’s pretty obvious an attorney could dig up my disease, dirt for Marble’s defense.
Fuck. Weiss is right: I cannot testify.
I also cannot tell him that.
I hear the toilet flush and I make a thing of putting my hair back into its knot so I’m doing something that seems normal when he comes outside. I tell myself I have nothing to hide.
“Nice night,” Weiss says.
“I guess, if you aren’t sweating a felon at large or your testimony against him.”
“I thought you’d be happy. About St. Claire, I mean.”
“I’m not happy about any of this.” I stand up. “Thanks for the soup,” I say, like goodbye.
I don’t stick around to hear him say I’m welcome.
I go inside, lock the door, check on Isabel, and slip out the back to run the steps. I will run them 100 times. I won’t take the drugs. I can’t be sick now. I’ve got to focus. Get straight. Get strong.
I’ve got to find Marble before Weiss does.
8
By six A.M. I’ve cleaned the kitchen and read the paper online. I’m still not mentioned, and neither is Marble. News of Sacred Heart’s financial distress is a headline, though: apparently, the state is stepping in with a half-million bucks in temporary assistance while a new board tries to get a handle on the hospital’s fiscal situation. Calvin was right: it’s got something to do with how insurance pays for low-income patients. Sounds like the place is bleeding money.
The article doesn’t mention the layoffs directly, but James Novak, who’s said to be a millionaire himself, is quoted as saying, “It seems we can no longer afford to save both lives and jobs.” The black and white of it—that health care is also unaffordable to the practitioners—bothers me. So does the fact that Kay St. Claire, someone who can, based on her pricy address, pay for health care—was transported there.
I dress for work in my closet with the lights off so I won’t wake Isabel, who snoozes soundlessly in my bed after a restless night. It was my fault: when I couldn’t sleep, I selfishly brought her in with me. We didn’t do each other any favors.
While I cobble together breakfast from what’s left in the pantry, I put on a pot of Tom’s decaf. It tastes okay, though without caffeine, there’s really no reason for it. A sad but obvious metaphor for our relationship.
I find a packet of plain oatmeal and put water on the stove. I’m on the phone holding for Iverson when Isabel carries the sharps container into the kitchen. She looks pretty proud of herself.
“Where did you get that?” I ask, though I know: I left it on the tub ledge last night. I forgot about it when Weiss rang the bell. I wonder if he saw it. Fuck.
“Bye bye.” Isabel struts past me, the bright red plastic box her newest handbag.
“Where are you going?” I ask, playing her game even though I know it.
“Work.”
“Come eat breakfast.” I stir oatmeal into the water.
She tries stepping into the heels I wore yesterday.
“Come eat breakfast before you go, please?”
She ignores me. Reaches for the doorknob. Is tall enough, in one heel, to turn the knob, but doesn’t yet know how to manipulate the lock.
“Isabel. Breakfast? We have to go soon—”
I get kicked to Iverson’s voice mail. At the beep, I try to sound pleasant when I tell her I’m hoping for a desk and to please call. In the meantime Isabel is teaching herself how to work the lock.
I tuck my phone in my bag. “Isabel. Come h
ere, please.” I say please like now.
She turns around and looks at me. And then she sits down with the sharps container and tries to get that open.
It could go on like this. Some days, words mean nothing.
And on those some days, bribery is the only way.
I look through the junk drawer and find a fun-size pack of M&Ms leftover from Easter. “Hey, Isabel,” I say, opening the package. And then I give them to her one by one, candy-coated rewards for her compliance in all matters related to getting her dressed and ready to go.
Before we leave, I eat the oatmeal. It sucks.
* * *
I don’t regret the decision to take a child who’s had chocolate for breakfast to the grocery store until we are the cleanup in aisle six.
Shopping was taking a long time—of course I left the list sitting on the kitchen counter—and Isabel was upset I wouldn’t buy cereal she liked because of the princesses on the box. But how that escalated into three broken jelly jars can only be the result of a strung-out toddler.
When the jars hit the floor and shattered, Isabel thought it was funny until she worked out that I didn’t think so at all. Then came tears.
I told her not to cry. I said, “Don’t cry.”
That was all it took to get more tears.
Telling her to calm down backfired, and pretty soon she was screaming. “Mama!” she wailed, as though I’d stolen her from her real mother.
People were looking. Pretending not to look.
I tried to be reasonable. It didn’t work. And then stayed reasonable but had to yell, so she could hear me over her own screaming, “Isabel. Enough!”
Then came the kicking.
The kicking always gets me, same as it did the day I took Isabel from George’s apartment. It was her first birthday; George and Soleil threw a party. There was plenty of revelry but there were no other kids and no cake and, thanks to Soleil, all the apple juice was mixed with Jack Daniels. I was the only one who brought a gift.
I watched George with Isabel. He was lovable and laughable. I knew he had been through a hard time since Isabel’s birth mother disappeared; I also knew he was drug numb. The prescription medication for his back injury was dulling him entirely.
The Lies We Tell Page 8