Some Nerve

by Jane Heller

  “Although their meat loaf isn’t bad,” Eleanor droned on. “I have it about twice a week. Sometimes I get the mashed potatoes with it. Sometimes I’ll try the squash. And if I’m really feeling adventurous, I’ll ask for the Spanish rice with those little slivers of red peppers in it. Oh. Wait. Is it Spanish rice or Mexican rice?” She pondered as she scratched her chin, which, by the way, had a blond whisker on it. “I just can’t keep their Hispanic dishes straight. Or should I have said their Latino dishes?”

  “Either way, I’ll make a point of trying the meat loaf,” I said, wishing she’d shut up and let me eavesdrop.

  “Yes, do try it,” she said. “And try their roast chicken. They season it with lemon. Parsley and garlic too. The thighs are the—”

  I tuned her out and strained to hear what Jonathan, a short, thin man with delicate fingers and wrists and, very likely, extremely low cholesterol, was reporting to Richard.

  “After he had the episode, I told him we suspected the ventricular tachycardia,” said Jonathan. “And his response was: ‘Great. Just give me some medicine and let me go home.’ I explained that medicine wasn’t the answer and that his abnormal heartbeats could kill him. That got his attention, temporarily. I said we’d have to do the electrophysiological study tomorrow and that everything would be okay once we confirmed the diagnosis. He said, ‘I don’t want any study. I want out of here. I’ve got to get back to work.’ He’s quite a character.”

  Yep. Sounded just like my boy Luke.

  Richard gave Jonathan one of those wink-wink looks. “He’s used to having everything his way, don’t forget.”

  “I understand that,” said Jonathan, “but I reminded him that his life was more important than his career. Bottom line: He’s having the test tomorrow.”

  “Good,” said Richard. “Hopefully, you’ll be able to induce the ventricular—”

  “Ann,” said Eleanor, tapping my arm. “How’s your moo goo gai pan?”

  I glanced down at my food, having forgotten all about it. “It’s delicious,” I said, eager to get back to news of Goddard. So his heart condition was life threatening but treatable. Amazing. Everybody in the entire world thought he was battling a booze problem. Maybe he would mellow out now that he realized he was as vulnerable as the rest of us.

  “My Mongolian beef is a little tough,” said Eleanor. “Not terrible, just chewy, stringy, hard to digest. I think if they’d marinated it longer or used a more pungent sauce, maybe more scallions too, it would have been a tastier—”

  “How are the kids?” Richard was asking Jonathan by the time I finally broke free of her restaurant review.

  Damn, I thought. I’d missed the end of the Goddard story. Now I’d have to wait until Friday to find out more. I planned to go back for my shift and get the story for myself. Right from the horse’s ass’s mouth.

  I WASN’T PLANNING on stopping to chat with Shelley that Friday afternoon, but she beckoned me into her office with her big, hearty laugh, so I could hardly refuse. She was great, don’t get me wrong. It was just that I was dying to load up the magazine cart and head straight for six for my next shot at Goddard. And yes, of course, I was concerned about his health. As I said, I didn’t wish illness on anybody, not even him.

  “How’d you make out on Tuesday after all the fireworks?” she asked. “You came back today, so that’s a good sign.”

  “Did you really think I’d quit?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I wasn’t sure. Were there some positive experiences for you after the adventure with the porn couple?”

  “Actually, there were,” I said, and I wasn’t talking about our celebrity, although I’d already typed notes about my conversation with him into my laptop, recording his answers to my questions, especially those regarding his take on Hollywood. No, when Shelley asked about positive experiences, I was thinking about the woman with brain cancer and the man with AIDS—how I felt I’d lifted them up just a little and, in the course of doing that, lifted myself up too.

  “Just what I wanted to hear,” she said. “Now I know you spent your entire shift on six last time, so today you need to visit patients on other floors. I like our volunteers to spread the good cheer around.”

  No six? Well, she couldn’t mean that, I decided. She just meant that I should start on the other floors and work my way up, which is exactly what I intended to do.

  After loading up the magazine cart, off I went. On three, I visited the kids in pediatrics, figuring I’d just hand out copies of Woman’s Day to the mothers and Sports Illustrated to the fathers and scram. Instead, I found myself totally entranced by the children. Many of them were cancer patients, according to Jeanette, whom I’d met at my orientation and who was volunteering on the floor twice a week. And despite the obstacles they faced and how awful they felt, they giggled with me and asked me to read to them and told me about their dreams for the future.

  “They’re pretty inspiring, right?” said Jeanette. “They’re changing my life, I can tell you that.”

  “They’re wonderful,” I agreed, realizing yet again that my problems were so trivial in comparison with those of others.

  “There’s one I’d really like you to meet,” she said. “Her name’s Bree Wiley and she’s a cutie.”

  Bree, it turned out, was a ten-year-old girl in dire need of a liver transplant. She was an adorable, precocious child with deep dimples on both cheeks. She was also the only daughter of parents without insurance—the sort of people Richard said were responsible for the hospital’s diminishing profits. Both Mr. and Mrs. Wiley had been laid off from the chemical plant in Center Creek and were working part-time jobs that left them unavailable to see their daughter very often.

  “Hi, Bree,” I said. “I’m Ann, and I’m a volunteer like Jeanette.”

  “Hi,” she said. She was sitting up in bed writing in her diary, a hot pink vinyl-covered book with a lock and key, just like the one I had at her age. Her hair was a tangle of golden blond ringlets and, despite her sallow complexion and overall listlessness, she was flashing me a smile that would melt anyone’s heart.

  “Want some company today?” I asked.

  She nodded, then cupped her hands around her mouth, preparing to whisper. “Jeanette told me something about you.”

  “Oh?” I said, whispering back. “What was it?”

  “That you know movie stars,” she said, her eyes wide with her discovery.

  I laughed. “She told you that, huh?” After the orientation, Jeanette had asked me which magazine had fired me and I’d told her. So much for volunteer confidentiality.

  “I love movie stars so much,” said Bree, clutching the diary to her heart. “Even the ones my parents’ age. I have a million pictures of them at my house, some of them even autographed. I wrote to fan clubs and got them. I have more pictures than any of my friends.”

  She really did remind me of myself when I was ten. I too had the faces of celebrities plastered on my walls. “Do you have a favorite movie star? Hilary Duff, maybe?”

  Bree crinkled her nose in disdain. “She’s big with kids. I meant grown up movie stars. My mom won’t let me see their movies until I’m older, but that doesn’t stop me from thinking about them.” She giggled. “I love Orlando Bloom.”

  “I bet he’d love you too.” I tousled her hair.

  “Do you know him?”

  “No, honey. Sorry. I did meet movie stars when I worked for a magazine, but not him.”

  She pouted for a second, then perked up. “Are you friends with the ones you did meet? Like, is there any way you could get them to visit me?”

  “I wish I could,” I said, “but they’re busy people. They’re always off shooting their movies.” Of course, if Goddard had checked into the hospital under his own name and not been such a nut about his privacy, I could have brought him to meet Bree. Not that she’d recognize him any more than I did at first.

  She sighed and rested her head on the pillow. “When I get my new liver, my parents wi
ll take me to Hollywood and I’ll meet movie stars every single day. That’s my dream.”

  “Perfect,” I said, knowing full well that she could die before making it to the top of the donor transplant list. What’s more, her parents didn’t have the money for a trip to Hollywood or anywhere else. “You hold tight to that dream and never let it go.”

  “What’s your dream?” she asked. “Or don’t you have one?”

  Oh, I had one, all right. But it suddenly seemed ridiculous, petty. And so I answered, “To see you healthy and out of this place, Bree Wiley. That would make me the happiest person in the history of Heartland General.”

  On four, I stopped in to see both the mothers of newborns and the patients who would never have newborns. Regarding the latter group, I found it disturbing that so many women—some in their thirties like me—were having to undergo surgery that robbed them of their chance to have children. So many hysterectomies were being performed at the hospital, and it didn’t seem right.

  One such patient was a woman in her late thirties. She was stocky, with a thick neck and massive forearms, her brown hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She looked like a bulldog and I half-expected her to jump down off the bed and gnaw on my leg.

  “How are you feeling today?” I asked.

  “I’m in a lot of pain,” she said. “The doctor told me I’d feel this way for another week. Then I’ll be fine.”

  “Sounds like the worst is over then,” I said. “You’ve had the surgery. Now you just have to heal.”

  She shrugged. “Still, they took everything out. I can’t have kids.”

  I pulled up a chair and sat beside her. I had no personal experience whatsoever when it came to having children other than hoping I’d have a few of my own someday, but I knew a sad lady when I saw one.

  I brought up adoption. She said she didn’t know anyone who’d ever adopted. I pointed out that Angelina Jolie had adopted two orphans. She smiled and thanked me for reminding her about that. (I’m telling you, the celebrity stuff really came in handy.)

  “Once I’m done with the abdominal pain, I’ll speak to my husband about it,” she promised. “Thank you for the talk. You’re a very nice person. What’s your name again?”

  “Ann,” I said, suddenly very pleased that I seemed to be representing Heartland General so well. “Ann Roth.”

  On five, I met a handsome white-haired man who only spoke Russian and, therefore, wasn’t a candidate for Field & Stream or anything else I was peddling. But he’d just had a stroke—or so it seemed, given his limited use of his right arm—and was very gloomy about it. I couldn’t leave without at least trying to lift his spirits.

  Through a combination of sign language and overly enunciated English, I told him that my great-grandmother was Russian. “From Odessa,” I said.

  His expression brightened. “Odessa. Beautiful, beautiful.” He chattered away in Russian after my announcement and I pretended to understand what he was talking about, and by the time I left he seemed less discouraged, more hopeful.

  Damn, I’m not bad at this stuff, I thought, suddenly feeling less discouraged and more hopeful myself.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When I finally arrived on the sixth floor, I made a very showy demonstration of stopping in to see each and every patient; I didn’t want anybody getting suspicious of my keen interest in the patient in 613. And it was keen, all right. I was dying to know if he’d died. Or if he’d had that study Jonathan White had told him to have and was now improving quickly enough to be discharged soon. And I wondered what sort of reception I’d get when he saw me, given our last encounter.

  Once again, I steadied my nerves as I knocked on his door.

  “May I come in?” I said. “It’s Ann, your favorite volunteer. I’m ready to call a truce if you are.”

  “Oh, jeez.” A pause. “Yeah, sure. Come on in.”

  It wasn’t the most gracious welcome, but it could have been worse.

  “Hello, Luke,” I said, striding merrily up to his bedside. He had dark circles under his eyes, his hair was matted to his head, and there was stubble lining his jaw. He was still handsome but he needed a shave and a shower badly. If only the paparrazzi could see him now, I thought. “How are you feeling today?”

  “You don’t have to wear a rubber suit around me, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m over the upchucking.”

  I smiled. “I’m not worried about that at all.” Well, maybe just a little.

  “Actually, I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry I barked at you after I—” He shrugged. “I reacted like a dumb kid. You were very decent about it, Ann.”

  An apology and a compliment? And he remembered my name? I was amazed, but then I reminded myself that he had no idea he was conversing with a bona fide media parasite. “Believe me, I can relate. I’ve certainly felt humiliated once or twice,” I said, having been humiliated once or twice by him.

  “This whole thing has been so weird for me,” he said, ignoring my comment and keeping the focus on himself, the way all actors do. “I mean, I’ve never been sick in my life and all of a sudden they tell me I have a heart condition? It sucks. It totally sucks.”

  “It does,” I said. “But I’m sure the doctors will find a way to—”

  “They found a way all right,” he interrupted. “On Wednesday morning they wheeled me into the ‘cath lab’ for this test where they sedate you and stick wires up your veins.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “It didn’t hurt so much as blow my mind. They got my heart to do its out-of-rhythm thing and then they had to shock it back to normal. I had no idea what was going on until I saw a guy coming at me with paddles. He was yelling, ‘Clear!’ just like on ER. Then I felt this jolt of electricity and I must have blacked out. Afterward, I said, ‘What the hell was that?’ The doctor goes, ‘You were dead for half a second and we brought you back.’ Talk about a nightmare. I’m still trying to shake it off.”

  No wonder he looked as if he’d been through an ordeal. “So now they know why your heart was out of rhythm?”

  He nodded. “But the remedy’s even worse. Tomorrow morning they’re dragging me back into that lab and implanting this little defibrillator into my chest so it can shock me automatically, whenever my heart needs that jolt. It stays in there forever, except when the battery runs out.” He rolled his eyes. “Me. Walking around like a character in a science fiction movie.”

  He was being overly dramatic, but I didn’t envy him his condition. “So that’s why they’re running an IV,” I mused, noticing the bag of fluids dripping into a vein in the hollow of his arm. As a card-carrying hypochondriac, I knew that antibiotics were routinely administered before and after surgery.

  “Yeah. Getting stabbed and pricked and poked is just another fun thing about being here.”

  “Come on, look on the bright side,” I urged. “Once they do this procedure, you’ll never have to worry about your heart again. You can go back to Miami and it’ll be as if this whole experience never happened.”

  “True. They’ll do the implant tomorrow and I’ll be home the day after. That’s the good news.”

  Good news? Maybe for him, but not for me or my story. I’d have to get some good quotes out of him fast or else. “What’s the bad news?”

  “I’ll have a small scar.”

  “And that bothers you?”

  “Sure, it bothers me.”

  “Because you’re vain?”

  “I’m not vain,” he said, as if the notion were inconceivable.

  “You sound defensive,” I said.

  “No, I’m just not vain.”

  “Then why would you care about a little scar?”

  He regarded me with puzzlement, probably because he wasn’t used to anybody questioning him, challenging him. He was an A-list celebrity and nobody ever challenged A-list celebrities. Now, some volunteer at a hospital in the Midwest had the audacity to do just t
hat—a volunteer who used to ask celebrities questions for a living—and he obviously didn’t know what to make of it. “It’s not cool in my line of work to have a scar, that’s all,” he said.

  In his line of work? I could hardly conceal my delight. I’d caught him in his lie. “I didn’t realize that men in real estate go around baring their chests in order to close a deal.”

  “I meant that in real estate you’re supposed to look and act confident,” he said, becoming flustered, “and this scar, which will be right under my collarbone and visible if I wear an open shirt, might tip off my clients that there’s something wrong with me.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said. “People aren’t that shallow. Well, except the ones in Hollywood that you talked about. But since you don’t live in Hollywood, what’s the problem?”

  “Okay, fine. Forget the scar,” he said. “There’s all this other stuff I’ve gotta deal with after they put the gizmo inside me. How would you feel if your doctor told you your battery had to be changed every five years or so? That you had to hold your cell phone at least six inches away from your defibrillator? That you had to avoid metal detectors, slot machines, amusement-park rides, and anything else that generates a strong magnetic field? You’d feel like a freak, that’s what.”

  “I probably would at first,” I conceded. “But you know, Luke, there are patients in this hospital who’d be so thrilled to have their hearts fixed and their lives saved that they wouldn’t complain about the annoyances.”

  “Annoyances?” He propped himself up in the bed and sort of glared at me. “Are you saying I’m a complainer?”

  Yes. “No, I just think your priorities might be skewed. You came here with a serious medical condition, but you’re going to get well. If you can’t take a ride on a Ferris wheel because of the defibrillator, it’s a small price to pay, isn’t it?”

  No immediate response, except for that glare. The color of his eyes may have been a run-of-the-mill brown without the blue lenses, but the intensity of their gaze was as unnerving as ever. “So, Florence Nightingale,” he said finally. “Are you always so blunt?”