Some Nerve
Page 21
He exhaled deeply, his head sinking into the pillow. “I have no illusions that the people I surround myself with are friends, Ann,” he said finally. “But once you’ve achieved a certain level of fame, you don’t know which ones you can trust. So you don’t trust any of them. You just pay them and let them perform their services and get on with it. That’s the way the game is played in Hollywood. Has it warped my sense of reality? Maybe so. Has it given me the feeling that I can do whatever I want and there will always be someone to clean up after me? You could make a case for that too.”
“How sad,” I said, ignoring the tiny detail that I wasn’t someone he could trust either. “But there must be a better way to live, even for famous actors. Isn’t there?”
He turned away and gazed out the window. The afternoon sun was peeking out from behind a cloud, casting a golden hue across the bed. “I appreciate your attempt to reform me, and you can tell the doctors I’ll be a good boy from here on out, but I don’t feel like debating my lifestyle anymore,” he said, his voice weak but unwavering. “Not with you or anyone else. So no more questions.”
Ah. There he was: the Malcolm Goddard I knew and loathed; the man who didn’t answer questions; the man who shut everybody out. As he continued to stare off into the distance, I did wonder if I’d gone too far, spoken too brazenly. Yes, I’d lost my shot at interviewing him, but he was a patient and it was my job as a volunteer to treat him with respect and dignity. On the other hand, he’d asked for it with that crazy aspirin stunt of his. Someone had to unload on him, and it might as well have been me.
“No more questions,” I agreed, moving toward the door. “I’ll let you get some rest. I really hope you’ll be able to go home soon.”
I started to leave.
“Hey,” he said, turning away from the window to look at me.
“Yes?” I said, suddenly clinging to the slim chance that he’d changed his mind and did want to answer my questions after all. Just a few. Enough for a Famous article. Nope, part of me still hadn’t given up the dream.
“Did you ever see the movie One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest?” he asked.
Of course I’d seen it. It was thirty years old, but a classic—the winner of numerous Oscars. “No,” I said, since I was supposed to be a dummy when it came to movies. “Why?”
“There’s a character named Nurse Ratchet,” he said with a straight face. “You remind me of her.”
“I—” I was on the verge of pointing out that I was nothing like the evil, sadistic monster in that movie, but I muzzled it. “Thank you,” I said instead and retreated.
Chapter Twenty-two
Okay, so I’d been forced to abandon the idea of writing the scoop of the century about Malcolm, but I wasn’t happy about it. Thanks to Tuscany and her urgings, I’d allowed myself to imagine returning to Famous and demanding my due as the journalist who’d reeled Goddard in, and I’d invested more of my heart and soul in the fantasy than I’d realized. Legally, I couldn’t write about his medical condition, but I’d managed to accumulate other bits and pieces and I was planning to add more, enough for a whole profile. When I got home on Tuesday night, I couldn’t resist rereading the e-mail I’d composed to Harvey and left in the Drafts folder, where it waited to be completed and sent. It was meant to be the cover letter accompanying the story, and it was full of exclamation marks. (“You said I didn’t have what it takes to get the big get! Well, feast your eyes on the attached document, Harvey!”) I laughed ruefully as I thought how exuberant I sounded in that e-mail, how vindicated. But then came Malcolm’s admission about who he was and the abrupt end to the possibility of my questioning him about his life. I had to let it go, let the fantasy go, once and for all. The upside of all this was that I now had the time and energy to focus on other things, on other people.
My mother, for instance. On Wednesday morning, I tried yet again to coax her outside to the mailbox.
At first, she claimed that she had a cough and that the spring air would bring on full-blown pneumonia. And I thought I was a hypochondriac. I assured her that spring air doesn’t cause pneumonia and that her cough was audible only to her. Then, she remembered the lemon bars she had supposedly promised to bake for Sallie’s Groceries. I reminded her that she’d sent the lemon bars over to Sallie’s on Monday; I knew because I’d dropped them off myself. Excuses, always excuses. Of course I understood them, understood the whole psychology of fear and panic. How many times had I called the airlines to make reservations for flights, only to cancel them a day later, giving Harvey a laundry list of “reasons” why I couldn’t possibly have flown—from phony sinus blockages to funerals of relatives I didn’t have. I knew what my mother was going through better than anyone, which was why I was determined to push her out the door.
“Just a few steps,” I said, once I’d actually gotten her to the threshold and we were on the verge of venturing out. She was holding on to my arm for dear life. I could feel her fingernails digging into my skin.
“What if my legs buckle?” she said, looking at me with the same deer in-the-headlights expression I must have worn at the Santa Monica airport the day I had doomed myself to ignominy and unemployment. I did miss L.A., did miss the excitement, but I sure didn’t miss the panic attacks. Since I’d moved home and become a volunteer, they’d disappeared. Well, not completely. I don’t think you’re ever cured of fearfulness; you develop an acceptance of it, then a gradual management of it. I still felt shaky in crowds on occasion, but I didn’t feel the need to bolt from them or avoid them altogether. I hadn’t been on a plane, granted, but I had every intention of flying at some point, I really did. Bree Wiley dreamed of flying to Hollywood, but she needed a new liver first. I had no such impediment. I was lucky. The patients at Heartland General were beginning to teach me just how lucky I was.
“If your legs buckle, you’ll fall down,” I said as my mother gripped my arm even more tightly. “And then you’ll dust yourself off, get back up, and keep going. You won’t die and the neighbors are too busy with their own problems to notice and the world won’t come to an end if you fail, Mom. I promise.”
She nodded. Putting what felt like all her considerable weight on me, she walked with me out the door.
“I’m only doing this for you,” she said as we took our first steps—slow, deliberate, baby steps—down the brick path. “Because you asked me if I’d come to your wedding.”
I laughed. “It was a hypothetical invitation. Nobody’s proposed to me yet.”
“Maybe getting me out of the house will bring you that proposal,” she said. “Good deeds bring good things.”
“You’re not a good deed,” I said. “You’re my mother.”
We proceeded at a snail’s pace down the path, one foot at a time, until she announced that she’d had enough. We’d only made it halfway. “I’m very light-headed,” she said. “We have to stop.”
“We can if you want to,” I said, then pointed to the mailbox. “But it’s only a few more steps. And you’re doing great.”
“No, I’m not. I’m panicky,” she said, her breath coming in short spurts. “This all feels—I don’t know—dangerous.”
I thought of some of the patients with their shaved heads and bandaged limbs and infectious diseases. They were proof that life was dangerous, that none of us was guaranteed a safe passage.
“You’re doing great,” I repeated, cheering her on. “Incredible, in fact.”
I managed to talk her into continuing. When we reached the curb, she let go of my arm so she could fling herself onto the mailbox. She rested her head on it, cradled it, and then the tears came. I hadn’t seen her cry since my father died. But these were tears of victory, of sheer joy at having done what had seemed impossible. If you’ve never been disabled by panic disorder, you’re rolling your eyes right now and thinking, The woman didn’t win a marathon; what’s the big deal? If you have been a sufferer, you’re clapping for my mother because you know exactly how big a deal it is.
“It’s Ann from Heartland General,” I said when she answered the phone. “How are you feeling, Isabelle?”
“Bad, very bad,” she said. “That’s why I called you. You were so sympathetic and understanding. So I’m asking for your help again.”
“I’m not sure how I can help,” I told her. “Have you spoken to your doctor?”
“I’ve tried to speak to him,” she said. “Over and over. He won’t pick up the phone.”
So she’s a complainer, I thought. Just like Malcolm. “It hasn’t been that long since your surgery,” I reminded her. “There’s bound to be some leftover soreness.”
“My doctor said my problem would be gone by now, but it isn’t.”
“Your problem?” I said, getting sucked into this conversation in spite of myself.
“He said I had an infection in my tubes,” she explained. “That’s why he did the hysterectomy. But if he took everything out, why do I still have such pain?”
Okay, I knew Richard was right when he told me to leave the medical stuff to the pros. I also knew he was right when he said that some patients liked to blame the hospital for their suffering, the fiasco with Malcolm being a prime example. And he’d explained that women who’ve had hysterectomies often had emotional after effects once the reality of losing their reproductive organs set in. But this woman was entitled to an answer from her doctor, wasn’t she? A follow-up exam at the very least?
“Call your doctor and say you want him to check you out,” I offered. “Don’t just complain. Tell him you need to come into his office immediately.”
“I already did that,” she said. “The receptionist insisted I didn’t have to come in for three months.”
That didn’t sound very conscientious on the part of the doctor, not if the patient was in severe pain. But I couldn’t get involved, couldn’t start rushing off to Richard with accusations. Not again.
“I still don’t understand why you’re telling me all this,” I said. “We hardly know each other.”
“You were the only one at that place who listened,” she said.
Listening was one thing; interfering in hospital business was another. Still, it wouldn’t be terrible of me to make a suggestion or two, I figured. “Here’s what I’d do if I were you,” I said. “I’d ask questions and I’d keep asking them until I got answers. If your doctor won’t return your calls, you should fax a letter to his office asking for your medical records. Then you should take those records to a new doctor and get a second opinion.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Doctors can be so intimidating.”
“So can patients. You should ask for all records relating to your surgery, including the pathology report,” I said. “You have a right to that information.”
“Yes, yes. Okay,” she said, sounding more hopeful. “Thank you for speaking to me, Ann. I knew I could count on you.”
“My pleasure,” I said, hoping I’d given her the right advice.
When we hung up, I kind of puffed out my chest and smiled. This volunteering stuff really was rewarding. The fact that Isabelle had sought me out—me, of all people—was a surprise. I hadn’t expected to be helpful to any of the patients, let alone a former patient. But even handing out copies of Famous was helpful to them, I saw, and I understood now that entertainment really does uplift. I used to be ashamed to say I wrote for the magazine, in certain circles, but not anymore. It did serve a purpose in its own way.
But how do I get back there, back to Famous? I wondered as I sat in my old bedroom, on my old bed. How do I return to a town that chewed me up and spit me out? Was there still a place for me in L.A.? If so, I certainly wasn’t seeing it.
“YOU JUST MISSED all the excitement,” said Shelley as I signed in for my shift on Friday afternoon. Part of me had considered bailing out on the program, given that the Malcolm story wasn’t going to happen, but the other part of me wanted to continue volunteering as long as I stuck around in Middletown. So there I was, smiling at Shelley in her black pants and screaming yellow sweater. She looked like a very tall bumblebee.
“What excitement?” I asked.
“A dozen members of the Royals stopped by for their annual visit to the physical-therapy wing,” she explained.
“The Royals, as in the baseball team?”
“Yep. The patients loved it. It’s amazing how a handshake from the players just perks them right up and makes them work harder on their rehab.”
“Too bad they can’t come here more often.”
“Don’t I know it.”
She was in the middle of filling me in about the team’s PR person when her phone rang. She excused herself to take the call, and I went off to the storage room.
While I was stocking the cart, I thought about starting on a low floor and working my way upstairs, but who was I kidding. Story or no story, I had to find out how Malcolm was.
When I got off the elevator on six, I spotted Jonathan standing at the nurses’ station, scrawling instructions on someone’s chart. He spotted me too and waved me over. I prayed he wasn’t going to ask if Richard and I could join him and Eleanor for dinner.
“Hello, Ann,” he said, and steered me into the corner by my elbow. “I wanted to talk to you about the patient in 613, the code blue from the other day.”
I nearly rocketed out of my white shoes. Did Jonathan think I’d told anybody about Malcolm’s identity? Was I about to get in trouble? “Is he being discharged?” I said innocently.
“No, he’s had another setback.”
“Setback?”
“Yes, and I’m only telling you so you’ll be prepared when you visit him. Yesterday he started running a fever and experiencing acute pain in his back. We’ve determined that the blood clot has spawned an infection.”
“Oh.” It was all I could manage. I was too alarmed by the news to say anything else. “Is it serious?”
“All hospital-borne infections are serious,” said Jonathan. “This place is full of bugs, some of which are resistant to common antibiotics.”
I swallowed hard, trying to process this ominous new development. “What happens now?” I asked, feeling like Jonathan’s colleague instead of a volunteer.
“We’ll watch him over the next week or so, until we’re sure we’ve got the right drugs. In the meantime, he’s been asking for you.”
Asking for me? Again? In spite of the way I’d scolded him the last time? “Is he still running a fever?”
“Yes, but he’s lucid. Very talkative, in fact.”
Talkative.
Well, of course I zeroed in on a possible interview when he said that. I just couldn’t seem to give it up.
Chapter Twenty-three
Malcolm wasn’t the pale, wan patient this time; he was flushed, vivid, expansive, animated. He welcomed me into his room as if I were his best friend in the world, telling me how I was the only bright spot in this whole mess; how I made him feel less isolated when I visited; how he missed my honesty, my realness when I wasn’t around. He announced that once he stopped blaming himself and everybody else for his predicament, he realized for the first time how fortunate he was to be alive. “I was never in touch with my mortality before,” he said. “Now I’ll never take it for granted.”
And that was just the opening act. What came next really shocked me.
After asking me—asking me!—to pull up a chair and sit next to him, he said he needed someone to talk to, someone who knew his true identity, someone who wouldn’t mind if he purged himself of all the thoughts and feelings he’d kept bottled up inside for so long, the highs and lows of his career included. “I could die from this infection, who knows,” he said, his eyes sort of crazed with fever. “I could die in this hospital out here in the mid
dle of nowhere, with no friends or family around me, nobody to care, and it would be my own damn fault. I didn’t let people in, didn’t let them get close. But now I want at least one person to know who Malcolm Goddard is before it’s too late, and that one person is you. I want to talk to you about my life, Ann. I want you to know what it’s been like to be me, because I value what you think. If it’s not a huge imposition, would you be willing to just sit there and listen to my ravings?”
I could almost see Tuscany standing behind Malcolm’s head, jumping up and down and squealing, “Duh.”
“Of course I’ll listen,” I said gently, at the same moment my brain was spazzing out with anticipation. I was finally landing the big get, and I wouldn’t have to ask him a single question. Ironic.
First came his childhood: the parents who never should have gotten married and who never hid their contempt for each other; the lonely, painfully shy boy who wandered off after school to find solace in movie theaters; and, most poignant of all, the two-year-old sister who’d died before Malcolm was born.
“Her name was Lily,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye. “She fell out of my parents’ fourth-floor apartment window, can you believe that? I mean, yeah, this was before they required everybody to put up those bars, but for my sister to be left alone and slip on the ledge and fall all the way down—”
He stopped himself. He was too choked up to keep going. Instinctively, I reached out to touch his hand, to try and comfort him.
“It must have been awful,” I said. “The worst thing imaginable.”
He nodded, wiped away another tear. “But it was compounded by the fact that I didn’t know she even existed until I was eighteen. Can you believe that?”
“No,” I said softly. There were no skeletons in my family closet. Everybody’s neuroses were right out there in the open.