This One Is Mine: A Novel

by Maria Semple

  “First he shot drugs,” Pascal said. “Then he started drinking. And now he’s in LA County.”

  “LA County?” Violet’s chest froze. “He hates LA County. He says people die there.”

  “That’s what happens if you drink with hep C,” Sally said. “It’s a real no-no.”

  “It was because of me.” Violet gulped. “Because of what I said at the wedding. Oh God, I should have apologized. It’s my fault.”

  “He started shooting drugs for one reason,” Pascal said.

  “Because of me,” Violet said.

  “Because he had the cash.”

  “What?” Violet asked.

  “He had three thousand dollars cash in his junkie hands, and he went out and got high. It’s as simple as that.”

  “I have to go,” Violet said.

  “Violet, don’t,” Pascal said.

  “I need to do this.” Violet took Sally’s hand. “I have to get David and I have to go.” She started off, then stopped. “Pascal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you.”

  SALLY watched Violet hustle off and stood there with the French waiter. . . .

  Violet’s mysterious friend with hep C.

  He was shooting drugs.

  He was at Sally’s wedding.

  The frightening man who emerged from the bathroom.

  The syringe in the wastebasket.

  It had no cap on it.

  That’s how Sally had contracted hep C.

  He used my needle to get high at my wedding.

  The waiter looked at Sally, as if waiting for her to speak. There was nothing to say. This guy — Teddy was his name — the one responsible for infecting Sally. He was now at LA County Hospital.

  VIOLET ran-walked-ran down the hall of the ICU, reading the patients’ names off the doors. The nurse had told her Teddy’s room number less than a minute ago, but she’d already forgotten.

  FLORES,L.

  This is all my fault. Before you met me, you were playing jazz, golf, going to AA meetings. I shouldn’t have given you the money. I meant well, but I didn’t know. You were right; there’s a lot I’m not very smart about.

  IDELSON, E.

  This was my fault. I won’t stop until you’re sober and healthy again. I promise.

  TOLL, J.

  David can help your career. You can audition for one of his bands. Or, if touring would be too hard on you, you could be a session musician. That pays great.

  REYES, T.

  Violet stopped.

  She’d gone back to the table to tell David the news. “What do you want me to do?” he asked. He didn’t press her for details. He didn’t get angry. He didn’t point out that in a marriage, you take care of the marriage, not the people outside the marriage. “I want to go,” she said. David put down his napkin and stood up. “I’m going with you.”

  Teddy was on a respirator, a tube sloppily taped to his mouth with too much tape, in a too-big X. Both arms were tucked under a thin blanket. A bag of brown liquid hung from the bed rail. He was awake and staring at the ceiling. Several clear bags of drugs hung from an IV drip, their contents landing in his vein. Was one of them morphine? She hoped so; she knew how fond he was of the opiates. At Kate Mantilini, Violet had studied the whites of his eyes to see if she could detect jaundice. Now they were a solid yellow. Yellow and green, Green Bay Packer colors . . .

  Teddy slowly turned his head in her direction, just like the first day they met, when she had run to his parked car. He had known it was her then; he had known that she would come. As he did now. And just like then, he nodded.

  “Oh, fuck you,” Violet said with a laugh. With that laugh, Teddy’s laugh, warmth filled her body. She sprang closer to the bed. Pieces of his hair were braided with colorful beads. “There’s your look,” she said. “It took you a while, but you finally found it.”

  He rolled his eyes but didn’t try to speak. He studied her face. On the TV, Jay Mohr told Conan an unremarkable story about being given the wrong hotel room in Vegas. Violet let Teddy’s eyes wash over her, savoring what felt like his touch.

  “You paged me?” A sandy-haired doctor breezed in.

  “Hi,” Violet said, startling. “Yeah. Could you tell me what happened?”

  The doctor looked at Teddy, then back at Violet. “I can only discuss a patient’s care with immediate family.”

  “I’m his aunt,” Violet said.

  The doctor frowned and turned to Teddy. “Do I have your consent to discuss your case with this woman?”

  Teddy nodded.

  “Is he going to be okay, Dr. —” Violet looked at the doctor’s name tag. “Dr. Molester?”

  The doctor quickly corrected, “Moleester.”

  Violet didn’t dare look at Teddy for fear they’d both erupt in laughter.

  Dr. Molester unhooked Teddy’s chart from the foot of the bed and gave it a cursory look. “He was brought in two days ago with acute esophageal variceal hemorrhage, caused by alcoholic hepatitis.”

  “I’m sorry, you’re going to have to dumb it down.”

  “Mr. Reyes’s liver was already compromised from hepatitis C. Excessive alcohol consumption caused the liver to enlarge and block certain veins from draining. Pressure built up in the esophagus to the point where his esophageal veins popped, causing a massive bleed. He’s lucky he didn’t bleed to death.”

  Teddy stared at the ceiling, a majestic beast, caged, yet not deigning to make eye contact with his captor.

  “Why is he on a respirator?” Violet asked.

  “We inserted a Blakemore tube in his esophagus to put pressure on the varices to stop the bleeding. It’s coming out tomorrow.”

  “So it’s not a permanent condition? He’ll be off the respirator and able to talk?”

  “That’s correct.”

  She grabbed Teddy’s foot and gave it a shake. “I guess it’s premature to break out the cigarettes and ‘Send in the Clowns.’”

  The doctor scowled.

  “What, no Sondheim fans?” asked Violet.

  “There’s not a lot to joke about,” he said. “A biopsy indicated his liver is severely cirrhotic.”

  “Oh God.” Cirrhotic livers, this was her father’s bailiwick. “How bad is it?”

  “The liver is a regenerative organ. Sometimes it can recover from the injury of alcohol. Unfortunately, the scarring is permanent, so it remains vulnerable to any alcohol and infections.”

  “But if he doesn’t drink, he’ll be fine,” Violet said.

  “If he doesn’t drink, he might get better. We don’t know yet. If he drinks again, he’ll probably die.”

  “That’s easy enough.” She looked at Teddy. “Right? You can stop drinking.”

  Teddy raised his eyebrows skeptically.

  “Oh, come on. That’s the easy part. I can get you one of those minders David hires to go on tour with his bands.” She turned to the doctor. “Can I sign him up for a liver transplant?”

  “They don’t put active alcoholics on the transplant list.” He looked Violet up and down with disapproving eyes. “As you know, livers are hard to come by. You have to show that you want to live enough to not drink.”

  “But if he stays sober, he can get on the list.”

  “I’m not sure.” The doctor clanked the chart back onto the rail. “There’s a screening process that I’m not completely familiar with.”

  “So tomorrow I’ll talk to someone and get you on the list,” she told Teddy. “I know the best hepatologist in the city. Dr. Beyrer. We’ll have her take over your case.”

  “If you really want to help?” said the doctor.

  “Yes,” said Violet eagerly.

  “I suggest you donate blood. When Mr. Reyes came in, his liver was unable to manufacture the compounds required for clotting, so he required a massive blood transfusion. The hospital is always in need of blood.”

  “Oh,” Violet said, deflated by the meagerness of the request.

  “Unless, of co
urse . . .” he said.

  “What?” she asked, brightening.

  “You’re infected, too.”

  Violet felt a stab of humiliation. “No,” she said. “Of course I’m not infected.”

  “Good. Then you can give blood on the fourth floor. They’re open all night. Is that all?”

  “When will he be released?” Violet asked.

  “He’s on a strong regimen of somatostatin to lower the pressure within the portal system. Also, his abdomen was showing preliminary signs of ascites, which caused an infection to develop. We’ve got him on diuretics and broad-spectrum antibiotics.”

  “Well, whatever. The important thing is he won’t drink again and we’ll get him a new liver.”

  The doctor raised his eyebrows. “Excuse me, but we’re short staffed here.”

  “Of course. Thank you, Dr. Mol-eester.”

  The doctor departed. Teddy laughed, and coughed so hard he was thrust upright. The respirator tube snared him back like a fish on a hook.

  “Jesus! I’m sorry!” Violet frantically pushed her fingertips into the milky tape to keep the breathing tube affixed. She placed one hand on Teddy’s chest to push him back down, and left it there. He closed his eyes.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “The Baroness von Beeswax is in the house. I’m going to make sure you stay clean and get you a new liver.” Violet quoted Shakespeare, “Come, let’s away to prison; We two alone will sing like birds in the cage.” Teddy opened his eyes. “You do know where that quote is from,” she said. “It’s what Shirley Jones sang to Shamu in your favorite Partridge Family episode.”

  Teddy laughed again and started coughing.

  “Stop it, stop it,” she said.

  And then: in traipsed Coco.

  On a chair and table were a mangy rabbit-fur coat, cans of Red Bull, and a Vogue. They’d been there the whole time; Violet just hadn’t noticed.

  Coco was dressed the part, in all black. Laced into her black bob were braids with colorful bangles. Also on the table was a Ziploc bag of beads. Coco must have woven them into his hair. Her doll.

  “Who are you?” Coco’s voice was breathy and her words choppy. Her eyes, evacuated. There wasn’t even the slightest attempt at affability. Violet stared into the face of crazy. Not good-crazy. Mean, hard, mentally ill crazy. Violet looked to Teddy. His eyes were closed.

  “I’m his aunt,” Violet said, the words getting stuck in her throat.

  “No, you’re not.” Coco sat down on the bed. She took a swig from a can of apricot juice, then tore open some Oreos. “That lady in the blood place was a real bitch,” she told Teddy. “She wouldn’t let me give blood because of the hep C. But I stole some cookies and juice.” She seemed to have completely lost interest in Violet.

  Teddy opened his eyes but stared at the ceiling. He wouldn’t look at Violet. The fucking coward.

  Coco was a crazy liar who didn’t love Teddy, yet he kept coming back for more.

  Teddy was a crazy liar who didn’t love Violet, yet she kept coming back for more.

  So who was Violet, other than a crazy liar . . . who kept David coming back for more?

  But Violet could change that. She would make herself worthy of David. It might be the only thing of note she would do for the rest of her life.

  It would have to be enough.

  She hoped it would be enough.

  “Turn it up,” Coco said to no one in particular. “I love this commercial.”

  Violet looked at Teddy one last time, his eyes still closed. She turned and walked out of his room and down the corridor.

  She thought about the zucchini in the garden. Winter weather hadn’t yet arrived, so the summer vegetables were still thriving in December. Tomorrow, she’d pick some and make David that pasta he liked, the Marcella Hazan recipe with the mint and garlic and red wine vinegar. She picked up her pace; she couldn’t wait to tell David about the dinner she was going to make. She’d fry green tomatoes, too, with herb aioli. Because of the heat, the dill and cilantro Violet had planted last month were beginning to bolt and needed to be picked. Dot could help Violet. She loved helping her mama in the garden.

  Violet turned into the waiting room. David sat cross-legged on the floor, playing dominoes with a black family. She had no idea her husband knew how to play dominoes.

  He looked up. “What?” he asked.

  She decided against telling David about the pasta. It would be better to surprise him.

  SALLY watched, undetected, from across the nurses’ station, as Violet left. Once the coast was clear, Sally moved to a chair beside Teddy Reyes’s room. She didn’t know what she’d been waiting for, but when the girl in black left, Sally floated to her feet and entered.

  The respirator was so loud it seemed to overpower the patient asleep in bed. Sally walked closer. Yes, this was the man from the wedding. Not that she had doubted it, but seeing him gave her the serenity of knowing she’d put the pieces together correctly.

  Sally glanced at his chart. There it was, hepatitis C, genotype two. Fourteen percent of all hep C cases were genotype two. At least he’d given her the good hep C.

  He was beautiful. Gorgeous fuzzy eyebrows, the kind you wanted to gently brush your lips across. A crooked nose. Sweet ears. One had been pierced several times but was now free of adornment. Short, sparse eyelashes. His forehead smooth, kissable. His arms rested above the blankets. So tanned, the jaundice only showed on the inside of his elbows. He must have loved the sun — a day laborer, a beach rat, a water baby?

  A tattoo peeked above the blood pressure cuff and continued down his inner arm. Sally couldn’t tell if it was a vine or some kind of snake.

  His thumb bled at the fingernail. He must have chewed it just before he fell asleep. Poor guy. What had he been so worried about that he pushed the respirator tube away and risked his life just to chew his nails? Was it something Violet had said? On the blanket, near his right hand, was a bright red dot. Fresh, virus-infected blood. Before Teddy, Sally might have been afraid of it. Tonight, she touched it. She leaned over to behold his face. Her hair brushed his cheeks.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered. She reached under his neck and felt the warmth of his skin, happy warmth. She slipped her fingers farther down his back and felt the ripple of his ribs. In his slumber, his head rocked, then lolled on her arm.

  “You did the best you could,” she said.

  Sally’s free hand was slightly cupped and turned upward. She closed her eyes. Teddy was alive in her. As was the person he had contracted the virus from. And the person who’d given it to them. And anyone else who had hep C. Or any other disease. Or who’d ever been delivered impossible news. Or whose life was not what they’d hoped it would be. They all rested in the palm of her hand.

  “I know you’re scared,” she said. “I’m scared, too.”

  When Sally opened her eyes, his were open and gazing into hers. Their yellow glow only added to their beauty, such a gorgeous icy green.

  “I forgive you,” she said.

  His eyes absorbed her with such courage. His lower lids rose slightly. He was smiling. And then he closed his eyes.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Those Violets

  DAVID HADN’T TOLD HIS WIFE WHERE HE WOULD BE TODAY. IF VIOLET called, Kara was under strict orders to tell her he was unreachable, not back at the hospital.

  “What’s the name of this ambulance service?” asked the woman in the billing office. She was fat and peppy, a combination David found endearing.

  “It’s called Private Ambulance Providers of Los Angeles,” he said.

  “And it’s not one of ours?”

  “It’s a private ambulance service.”

  “You know insurance isn’t going to cover that?”

  “I know.”

  “Can’t be cheap.” The woman shook her head.

  “It isn’t.” David had arranged for Teddy to be transferred to Cedars and to be cared for by Sally’s hepatologist, Dr. Beyrer. David would pay t
he bill, no questions asked.

  “Okey dokey,” said the lady. “We’re just about ready. Let me get one more authorization.” She pushed herself up with a celebratory groan.

  “Take your time,” David said.

  Last night, when Violet had found David in the waiting room — he was playing dominoes with the father of a guy who’d been shot — there was a peculiar look on her face. David knew what it looked like to be wildly loved by Violet, he could tell by the twinkle in her eyes, and for the first time in years, he saw it. He had no idea what had transpired in that hospital room. But David’s final act of faith in Violet, and he knew it was the last one that would be required, was loving those she loved.

  In the sweat lodge, David had chosen to believe in her. It had brought him the truth that day in his office. What she told him, the depths to which she had sunk, and in the name of what, he still couldn’t comprehend; it nauseated him. What she described, not the details as much as the madness of the affair, was all too familiar.

  Back when David and Violet were newly engaged, Sacramento Sukey had called David’s office every day and every night. He never took her calls, naively willing her to just go away. His heart still raced, remembering that white-knuckle moment when he was heading out to meet Violet at Orso, before Falsettos. His secretary had buzzed him, “David, it’s Sukey again.” “Tell her I’m out of the office.” “She’s out here,” whispered the secretary, “in my office.” David slipped out the back door and raced down the thirty-eight flights of stairs, to Seventh Avenue. Somehow, there stood Sukey, jangly, puffy faced, desperate, outside a souvenir shop. She held the hand of her little boy. David wrote Sukey a check for five grand, right there on the sidewalk — for what, he didn’t know, but he became unglued by the prospect that Violet would surprise him at his office, as she sometimes did, and discover he was a cheat. Sukey never called again. Still, David hadn’t set foot in Sacramento for seventeen years. In fact, when Violet landed her first TV job and wanted to move to LA, the only hesitation on David’s part was that it was too close to Sacramento. This was why he hadn’t cheated since. Not because fidelity was sacrosanct, but because infidelity turned good people bad. David sometimes wished he could give himself points for his rectitude. But he had made up his mind, so it wasn’t even a choice. Other people apparently had a harder time sticking to things. Not David.