My Soul to Keep

by Melanie Wells

  “Oh. Well, I don’t know her Social. I mean, I’m just the aunt.”

  “Aunt?”

  “Yes. You know—like related to her parents? She’s my …” I couldn’t think. Cousin?

  “Niece.”

  “Right. That’s it. My niece.” I have become quite an accomplished liar in recent years—an unexpected benefit of the Peter Terry debacle. I’m not proud of it, mind you, but it does come in handy occasionally. I was off my game today, though. No rhythm. Rhythm is everything in lying.

  He pursed his lips and looked me up and down, then picked up the phone, punched a button, and waited a second, all the while keeping a sharp eye on me. I straightened my shoulders, copied Chanel’s beauty-pageant stance, and shot him a big Miss Texas smile.

  He turned his back to me and murmured something into the phone, then replaced the receiver and raised one eyebrow at me.

  “They’re expecting a friend, not an aunt.”

  “That’s me. I’m the friend.”

  “A male friend.”

  I felt a surge of alarm. Was David on his way? I still hadn’t gotten a pedicure!

  “Did they give you a name?”

  “I believe his name is Dylan Foster.”

  “That’s me! I’m Dylan Foster.”

  He crossed his arms. “Doctor Dylan Foster.”

  “I am Doctor Dylan Foster.”

  The other eyebrow went up. “Really, now?”

  “Yes, really now.”

  “Do you have your hospital ID with you, Doctor Foster?” He emphasized the doctor with palpable disdain.

  “Um, no. I mean … I don’t work at this hospital.”

  A raised eyebrow.

  “It’s just that, well, I’m not that kind of doctor.”

  “A veterinarian, perhaps? Or maybe you just play one on TV?”

  I resisted the urge to sock him in the stomach. “Psychologist. I’m the family’s psychologist.”

  “I thought you said you were the child’s aunt.”

  “Well … that too. I’m the aunt, the psychologist, and the friend. I multitask.”

  “So … the man part?”

  I wanted to point out that he was the one with the gender confusion, not me, but it seemed unwise.

  “Maybe it was just an assumption the nurse made?” I suggested. “I mean, it happens to me all the time.”

  He looked me over. “Really now?”

  “On paper. It happens on paper. Gender-neutral name.”

  He sighed and held out his hand. “ID?”

  I handed him my driver’s license and a copy of my American Psychological Association membership card, hoping he wouldn’t notice that both were expired.

  He sniffed and handed them back to me, walked wordlessly away from his desk, and opened the door between the hallway and the sacrosanct area into which unauthorized personnel like me were not allowed to pass.

  On the other side of the door was a waiting room occupied by a few sick children and their exhausted parents. I scanned the room but didn’t see Christine or Liz. Patrick strode past the wilted families and tapped on the glass between the waiting room and the nurses’ station. The frosted pane slipped open an inch, and my escort whispered for a moment to the person behind the window.

  The window slid shut, and someone opened the door into the radiology unit. I waved a thank-you to Patrick, but he’d already turned on his heel and left, a vague sense of contempt wafting out behind him.

  I followed the radiology tech (purple scrubs, orange hair, black roots, no eyeliner) into the holy of holies—a warren of curtained booths where patients changed into gowns and waited to be called for their procedures. I could hear Christine wailing as soon as I stepped into the hallway. I followed the sound and pushed back the curtain.

  Liz was holding her and rocking in a fruitless attempt to settle her down. Christine was having none of it. She kept trying to push her way off Liz’s lap, fighting with all the kick she’d shown the paramedics that first night at my house. Poor guy was probably still limping.

  “I don’t know why she’s acting like this,” Liz said over the din. “It’s just an x-ray.”

  “Hi, Punkin,” I said brightly.

  Christine paused, wiped her eyes, and looked up at me, then buried her head in Liz’s hair and glued herself to her mother. Liz looked helplessly at me over Christine’s shoulder. She had circles under her eyes and a look of gray fatigue on her face.

  “Want a break?” I asked.

  Liz nodded gratefully. “I’ll run to the restroom.” She spoke into Christine’s ear. “I’ll be right back, Punkin. You keep Miss Dylan company.”

  Liz peeled Christine off herself and handed her over. Christine latched on to me, and I hugged her as she sniffed and cried.

  After a few minutes of this, the curtain flew open, startling us both. Christine stopped for a moment, then took a breath and prepared to step up her screaming—expecting, surely, to meet the person who would usher her to her doom. I braced for a chewing out from someone fed up with the din.

  Instead, a sixtyish man with close-cropped gray hair, a phenomenal tan, and a bright, affable smile leaned into the booth and tapped Christine on the shoulder. He wore a faded hospital gown, his muscular, browned legs poking out the bottom and set off by a gleaming pair of white athletic socks. The man shot me a quick wave like he knew me and sat on the bench beside Christine. “Are you afraid?” he said to her.

  She sniffed hard, laid her head on my shoulder, and nodded.

  “You know what?” the man said.

  She shook her head no and wiped her eyes on my hair.

  “It doesn’t hurt one bit.”

  She lifted her head. “It doesn’t?”

  “Nope. Not one teeny bit.”

  “Are they going to give me a shot?”

  He leaned over and looked her in the eyes. “There’s not one single shot involved. I promise.”

  She looked at him doubtfully, but he gave her another big smile. “All they do is, they take you into this room, and it’s pretty cold in there. That’s the part I don’t like.” He turned to me. “But you can just ask them for a blanket, and they’ll give it to you, and then she won’t be cold anymore.” He looked gravely at Christine. “That’s why I keep my socks on.”

  Christine’s brow furrowed, and she wiggled her bare toes. I could see her making a mental note to ask for a blanket.

  “They stand you on this little black square in front of this big white square, and they stick this big metal tray into the white square, and then they go behind a little wall and tell you to hold your breath.”

  “For a long time?”

  “No. Just for a second or two. It’s easy. Like this.” He filled up his lungs and held the air in, a big, happy smile on his face, then blew into her face. She giggled.

  “And then …” He leaned in, his eyes twinkling as though he were telling her a fairy tale. “Then they come out from behind the little wall and slide another tray into the big white square, and then you get to do it again. It’s the easiest thing in the world.”

  “Easy-peasy,” I said to Christine.

  “Easy-peasy-I-have-to-sneezy,” the man said.

  “That’s what Miss Dylan likes to say!”

  “Really?” He winked at me. “That’s one of my favorite things to say. Let’s say it together.”

  They said, “Easy-peasy-I-have-to-sneezy,” together, and Christine squealed with glee. I was positively slack-jawed at her transformation.

  “And if you want,” the man added enthusiastically, “I’ll wait right next door until you finish, and then you can come out and tell me how easy-peasy-I-have-to-sneezy it was.”

  “You will?” she said.

  “Of course!” He got up and waved good-bye to Christine. Then he looked at me, a bright twinkle in his eye, stepped inside his booth, and shut the curtain behind him.

  Liz came back a few minutes later and raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Feeling better, Punkin?”
r />   Christine nodded and laid her head on my shoulder again.

  “We had a visit from another patient,” I said. “He cheered her up.”

  The tech came then and called Christine’s name. A brief look of panic crossed her face.

  I pulled away from her and looked her in the eye. “Remember, Punkin? Easy-peasy.”

  Christine sighed heavily, climbed off my lap, and looked up at the tech. “Can I have a blanket?”

  The woman had a kind smile. “Sure, sweetie. You bet.”

  Liz mouthed a silent thank-you to me as she took Christine’s hand and led her down the hall.

  I followed them to the x-ray room but wasn’t allowed in, so I contented myself with pacing maniacally outside the door until they emerged about fifteen minutes later.

  Christine came flying out the door, dragging her blanket. She charged past me and raced down the hallway looking for her new friend. Liz emerged behind her, and we walked together slowly down the long hallway.

  “How’d it go?” I said.

  “It was just a simple chest x-ray. I don’t know why she was so scared. She’s had x-rays before.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “Just to check out her lungs, make sure there’s no obstruction or anything. They said the chances of that were practically zero, but they have to rule it out anyway.”

  “Did they tell you anything?”

  “They’re not allowed to, I don’t think. Not until the doctor checks the films. But you know how you can usually tell by the tech’s mannerisms? I got the impression everything was fine.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “Sure, but it doesn’t get us anywhere. She has some kind of breathing test next. I can’t imagine the meltdown that’s going to trigger. I really don’t have the energy.”

  “Lucky break, that guy showing up, huh?”

  Liz threw her head back and moaned. “Thank God for the mercy of strangers.” We stopped at a vending machine. “Want anything?” She dug in her purse for change.

  “Nope.”

  She turned back toward the nurses’ station. “I’m going to see if I can find some change. I’ll catch up with you.”

  Christine had found the man’s booth and was sitting on the bench chatting amiably with him, telling him all about her x-rays and what a good job she’d done holding her breath and about how next time she’d know to take some socks, but her feet didn’t get that cold because she’d asked for a blanket right away, just like he said.

  I shook his hand and thanked him for his help.

  “She’s had a rough few days,” I said. “You were a godsend.”

  Christine gasped. “Did God send you?”

  The man’s eyes twinkled. “Of course He did. God doesn’t like for little girls to be afraid.”

  “Mommy said I have to do another one next.” She looked up at me, a shadow of fear crossing her face. “What is it?”

  “It’s just a little breathing test. I think you get to blow up a balloon or something. It’ll be great.”

  Christine looked over to the man. “Have you ever done that one?”

  “Well, I haven’t done that exact one. But I have it from a reliable source that it’s not hard at all. You just blow into a machine as hard as you want.”

  “That sounds fun, doesn’t it, Christine?”

  Christine cast a worried gaze at the man.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it one bit if I were you,” he said. “Not one bit.”

  Christine sighed but seemed resolved to take his advice.

  “Bye, Punkin,” the man said. “Remember, don’t be afraid.” He shot me a knowing grin and stepped back into his booth.

  We waited a few minutes for Liz, who came bearing a bag of Cheetos and two cold Dr Peppers. Christine dove into the Cheetos. I popped the top on a Dr Pepper and took a long, fizzy sip. We sat for a moment and gathered ourselves. Then Liz picked up her handbag and the worn hospital blanket, which Christine refused to leave behind, and we got ready to take Christine back to her hospital room.

  We’d left the holy of holies and made it almost past Patrick the eye-lined guard dog when I realized Christine’s new friend had never mentioned his name. I wanted to find out his room number and buy him a new car or something, I was so grateful for the relief he’d given my little friend.

  “Wait a second,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

  I hurried back to Christine’s empty booth and found the man sitting on the bench, his hands folded in his lap, ankles crossed, white socks gleaming, a contented smile on his face.

  “I’m sorry to bother you again,” I said. “I just realized we never caught your name.” I reintroduced myself and thanked him again for his help.

  “Very pleased to meet you, Dylan Foster.” As he stood and held out his hand, I could see an ankh on a chain around his neck.

  “Joe Riley.” He beamed at me. “At your service.”

  15

  BY THE TIME I stepped out of the hospital that evening, the parking lot was emptying out for the day, and the air smelled fresh and wet. Huge, puffy clouds were stacking high in a burnt western sky. I hadn’t seen a forecast in days, but May is when the thunderstorms come. Violent storms, with thunderclaps so sudden and explosive, they’re liable to sneak up on you without warning and knock you right out of your bed at night.

  The summer sun had turned the clouds a bright, orangy scarlet. I stood, mesmerized, and watched the entire sunset, stunned by the grand magnitude of the view, feeling small and comfortably insignificant, my worries melting away in the warm yellow glow. How could any of it be important with all that going on up there?

  I turned and walked to my truck, my thoughts turning to the journey home and the night ahead. I’d be glad for the rain. My yard was crunchy, my flowers wilted and bent.

  It had been another endless day. I mentally cataloged the events that had crowded between sunup and sundown. One hysterical meltdown (not mine, for once), one unexpected stranger, one chest x-ray, and one pulmonary function test (also not mine). And as a last, final indignity, a long, agonizing conversation with Liz about my dismal prospects for reclaiming my boyfriend. By the time I left the hospital, I felt like I’d gone ten rounds with one of George Foreman’s infomercials.

  As the darkness settled in, I walked to my truck and mentally ran through the conversation with Liz. She’d been appropriately appalled when I confessed to her my recent (multiple) episodes of spectacular self-indulgence. I’d cried telling her about it all, and she—quite generously I thought, considering the circumstances—had hugged me, expressed profuse sympathy, and handed me Kleenexes. She’d actually seemed relieved to be the one doing the comforting for a change. After listening to my stories, however, she’d suggested that I just might have done it this time and run David off for good.

  While I sulked, Christine had been busy whining for pizza. She’d then conked out halfway through her first slice, having successfully blown up the balloon every single time.

  “This child does not have asthma,” the tech had said flatly, ignoring the hospital’s disclosure rules entirely. Liz and I had looked at each other, relieved to hear it but weary of what was turning out to be an endless rabbit trail of ambiguity.

  We weren’t counting on his diagnosis, of course. We’d wait to hear from the doctor. But we both knew it. Deep down to our bones, we knew it.

  My house was dark when I got home. I parked my truck under the sycamore tree and slumped to the front door, fumbling for my keys in the dark. I’d tried to get Liz to switch with me—to take a night for herself while I did hospital duty—but she couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. They were both the same thing, as far as she was concerned. She couldn’t leave her kid in the hospital and go home for a good night’s sleep. It was an impossibility.

  Though I’d have been happy to sub for her, I had to admit I was looking forward to an evening alone.

  I threw my keys on the table and let the rabbits out of their hutches to wander around. I prop
ped open the back door, sliced up an apple and some rhubarb for them—a new favorite of Melissa’s—and set out to shed my day. To my profound relief, the mail held nothing extraordinary, and my answering machine was blissfully empty. I had no one to call, nothing to do, nowhere to be. I barely knew what to do with myself.

  Supper was a ham sandwich on wheat and a handful of Fritos. I consider Fritos to be a health food, since they are the only snack food I’ve found that contains none of that nasty ethylmethylpethyl at all. All they are is corn, oil, and salt. Nice, pure, crunchy food.

  I missed Christine. Christine and her weird crunchy food habits. After I’d put the dishes in the dishwasher and wiped down the counter-top with my new favorite cleaning product, Cinch (brought to us by God and the makers of Spic and Span), I fired up my laptop and sat at my kitchen table researching childhood lung conditions. Asthma was everywhere—all over the Web and all over the world, apparently triggered by everything from roach poo to anime cartoons to too much fun at Six Flags. The symptoms sort of fit, but not quite. And as the tech said, Christine had passed the breathing test with flying colors. She had no diminished lung capacity. The child did not have asthma.

  My next search was for inmate blogs. I found several without much effort, with titles like “Meet Pete” and “Save Steve”—all self-aggrandizing, self-pitying manifestos. All of the sites positioned the prisoners as hapless victims caught in the tortuous web of an overzealous justice system. There were long chat threads calling for the repeal of the death penalty, endless rants dissecting court cases—all in a naked effort to convince their readers that they were innocents, unjustly accused.

  Any time the crime was mentioned, the language became impersonal, and the writer switched to the passive voice: “the alleged victim was supposedly made to kneel” or “he was struck with a bat or some other object while drunk.” It angered me, the bald attempt to shift the blame from perpetrator to victim. And ultimately, of course, it was self-defeating. It just made them look more guilty.