Coming Attractions

by Bobbi Marolt

  “If you don’t cough it up, you’ll find yourself in deep shit with an oxygen tent.”

  Helen narrowed her eyes. “Do you talk to all of your patients like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “‘Deep shit.’”

  Teresa laughed. “No. You were comfortable calling me a bitch, so I can say ‘deep shit’ to you, especially if you’re headed that way.” She put the plastic to Helen’s mouth. “Now, breathe.”

  Helen watched the white cylinder rise and fall through her treatment. The required 1,500 milliliters mark was only half an inch away. Or was it millimeters? How do they gauge air sucking? No matter. Helen could suck air with the best of them.

  She filled her lungs, and the cylinder rose to the maximum 2500 mark. A thimble-like gauge to the left shook and shot to the top. Gotta get the prize.

  *

  Tinkly sounds of the merry-go-round played in the background as the eight-year-old Helen fired water into her target. The ball moved steadily upward. Gotta have that alligator. Above her target, the furry toy waited.

  Wide-eyed with anticipation, she stuck her tongue out past her lips and pulled the trigger tighter. She glanced at her competitors’ targets. Number four gained on her, but number seven fell back. The others were nowhere near. She pulled harder. Five was gaining. Three was on her tail. Now neck and neck. Four came up fast.

  Helen squeezed with both hands. Zrrring! went the bell. Her heart stopped. She watched the water drain and she looked up at the man who wore a red-and-white apron.

  “What’ll it be, little girl?” he said to her and waved his cane over the shelves of prizes.

  The other kids groaned.

  Helen squealed and jumped. “Me? The alligator!” She pointed to the fuzzy reptile and claimed her prize.

  *

  Helen coughed and spat another wad of goo into the bowl. Some prize.

  “Good.” Teresa handed her a glass of water. “Do it again tonight. I’ll have the nurse watching, so don’t think you’ll get away without doing it.”

  “She can be bought.”

  Teresa placed the stethoscope to Helen’s chest. “Take a deep breath and hold. Now out, hard. Sounds good.”

  Helen recovered from a cough and gazed out the window. A blue sky hung over New York. She wanted to smell winter’s clean air and feel it chill her lungs. She’d had plenty of friends trooping in and out, stacks of get-well cards, and fresh flowers. Endless attention from a particular female aide amused her. She wanted for nothing, but she was ready for civilian status. A plane passed in the distance. Blair flashed in her mind and Helen turned away from the window.

  “When can I go home?”

  “In about a week.”

  “Unacceptable. It’s already been thirteen days and I’m feeling well enough.”

  “You’ve been conscious for only eight of those days.” Teresa smiled.

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? It’s a control thing, isn’t it?” Helen’s face grew hot and she flung a pillow. “I damn near blow up my lungs for you and—”

  “And what’s this ruckus I heard from all the way down the hall?”

  Helen swung her head toward the figure in the doorway. A wonderful sight. Cory joined them at the ringside.

  “She won’t let me go home,” the eight-year-old in Helen huffed.

  “Wow. No ‘Hello, baby’ or promises of unconditional love?”

  “I’m not in the mood for sentimental sweetness.”

  Cory raised her eyebrows and glanced at Teresa.

  Teresa reached for Helen’s nose brace. “Let’s see what’s behind door number two.”

  “Am I going to look like a fighter?” Helen grumbled.

  “No, but a raccoon comes to mind.”

  “Wonderful. Ow. Jesus!” she yelled when Teresa peeled away the tape.

  “Sorry. There. All done.” She placed the piece on the table. “What do you think, Cory?”

  Cory motioned with her hands. “I think it leans to the left.”

  “What?” Terrified that her nose had healed crooked, Helen crossed her eyes in effort to see the damage.

  Cory laughed. “That was lovely.”

  “That isn’t funny,” she grumbled. Teresa handed her a mirror. “I do look like a raccoon.”

  “You’ll lose the discoloration. Other than that, it’s straight as can be.”

  In the mirror, Helen studied the bandages on her neck and jaw. She reached up to her chin. “Can I see what I look like beneath this?”

  Teresa removed packaged scissors and tweezers from her pocket. “Yes, and the surgeon has permitted me to remove the sutures. He’s done a nice job and the scar should heal smooth, but right now it’s not very pretty.” She removed the tape and peeled back the white patches.

  Helen turned her head to see her injury in the hand mirror. Red and puffy tufts of flesh stretched from her chin, along her jaw, and down to her collarbone. All held together with black stitching. Her personal barbed-wire fence. No, it wasn’t pretty. Makeup would cover the injury, but she couldn’t wear makeup to bed. What would Cory think of her now?

  Teresa proceeded to remove the black knots and Helen grabbed Cory’s hand. Cory would be less attracted to her. She’d run off with some other woman. Some other blonde. One without scars. One who would happily feed her fish. One who would cook for her, sniff blindly at her heels, and follow her to Boston. One who would sleep with her. The heifer.

  “Hey,” Cory said and moved closer.

  Helen looked at her. Go with that blonde, then. Enjoy her Pollyanna complexion. Let her clean up your piles of Rice Krispies. “What?” Helen pouted.

  “I love you.”

  Helen smiled, triumphant over the heifer. “I know. Will you please kiss me?” Cory looked toward Teresa. “It’s okay. She knows we sleep together.”

  Teresa removed the final thread and placed the instruments on the bed table. She laughed and pulled the curtain, separating herself from them. “She’s a mean badger today. You better kiss her, or I will.”

  Helen looked sadly at Cory. “I heard the surgeon describe my injuries. How will it be for you to see a map of Florida on my stomach?”

  “I thought you wanted a kiss.” Cory leaned into Helen’s mouth.

  Helen smiled as Cory’s lips touched hers. Warm and soft. The heifer won’t know what she missed. “I miss you, baby.”

  “Then get dressed,” Cory said. “Sam’s waiting with his van.”

  Helen grabbed a small piece of the curtain and yanked it open. “Really?” she asked Teresa.

  “There are rules,” she said and looked up from Helen’s chart. “Stay in the chair until the ortho surgeon removes the cast. Then it’s off to physical therapy with you.”

  “Okay.”

  “No sex for now. Touch a little, if you want, but no more. The strain will be too much for your abdomen.”

  Helen looked at Cory and grunted something close to “Okay.”

  “Stay on a soft diet and graduate to an intake of your regular meals. Your digestive system will tell you what you can handle. Change the dressings on your leg every two days for a week. Then you can take them off completely. I’ll send along a care package of bandages and tapes.” She sat on the bed and took Helen’s hand. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  Helen gave her a smile. She wished it could be more. The woman most responsible for her life deserved—what? Eternal devotion? A lifetime of house cleaning service? The History Channel? What would it take to repay her?

  “I’m alive because of you.” Helen hugged her with all the strength of her one healthy arm. “How do I repay that?”

  “You just did.” She wrote on her prescription pad, tore the sheet off, and handed it to Helen. “Call this woman. She’s a psychiatrist.”

  “A shrink?” Helen handed back the paper. “I don’t need a shrink.”

  “Helen.” Teresa paused and looked into Helen’s eyes. “Honey, you’ll experience some degree of emotional trauma. Post-
traumatic stress is not a happy place for anyone. I’m told you don’t sleep well.”

  “You didn’t tell me that,” Cory said.

  Helen fidgeted. “I don’t sleep well in strange beds, and the floor personnel are loud at night.”

  “Maybe that’s all it is. Hopefully.” Teresa handed the paper to Cory. “Just in case, Carolyn Ingram is among the best.” She squeezed Helen’s hand. “Say you’ll call her if you need to talk.”

  “Just in case, then.” Helen turned to Cory. “Take me home, woman.”

  *

  In the back of Sam’s van, Helen fooled with the motorized wheelchair that he had provided. Not much space to burn rubber, but she got the gist of the controller. She also found that if she held the brake, pressed the joystick forward, then released the brake, she could almost pop a wheelie. She’d be hot on Chamberlain’s heels without tiring. There she went again, chasing a woman.

  Horns blared. Tires squealed outside the van. Helen lurched forward, then fell back and against the chair. She closed her eyes, terrified while the fuselage tore open, and tightened her hand on Blair’s shoulder.

  Something hit her leg. Helen jumped and opened her eyes. Cory’s hand rested on her knee. Her heart beat wildly while sounds of her New York surroundings came back to her.

  It’s over. There’s no plane. No danger.

  “Are you all right? Do you want to stop?” Cory asked.

  She lied. “I’m okay. Everything feels and sounds new.” She wiped sweat from above her lip. “I’m anxious to get home.”

  “One more block,” Sam said.

  *

  The ride through the hallway clinched Helen’s desire for home. The familiar smells of the Dakota and the scent of Cory’s perfume grew stronger as she approached the apartment. At the hospital, her sense of smell had been limited to clean linen and alcohol swabs. Not to mention bacon.

  Sam stopped outside Cory’s door. “I’ll leave you two alone.” He bent down and kissed Helen’s cheek. “Welcome home. I’ll call you in a couple days.”

  “Thanks for your help,” Helen said.

  “You’re welcome. Call if you need anything.” He hugged Cory. “Take care of my girl.”

  “I will,” she said.

  Cory opened the door. Helen motored herself in and stopped. Apprehension. Fear. She remembered the same feelings when she submitted her first column to Sam. Was she good enough? Did she belong there?

  Helen thought, this is the world of the living, where people laugh and talk and live and walk. A world where planes crash and people die. I didn’t die, or am I spirit? Am I ethereal, refusing to leave a worldly realm? Am I now embracing the living, as I once embraced the dead? Where are the dead if I’m among them?

  “They’re looking at you,” Cory said, pointing to the aquarium.

  Helen smiled at their aquatic roommates. She wheeled herself toward the aquarium with its blue and green gravel and the mermaid that lounged on top of a bubbling shell. The filter hummed its sleepy song. Yellow and white coral, tucked into one corner, was home to a bashful swordtail. Helen looked closely and saw him there. She touched the glass.

  “Come on out, little guy,” she said. He flicked his tail, but Helen knew she’d never get him beyond his fortress. She counted six healthy fish. The new mollies she had bought seemed in their element and swam to Helen’s fingertips.

  “Look, baby,” she said, and Cory crouched beside her. “She’s pregnant.” She pointed to the mollie’s swollen belly. “We’ll have to separate her from the others. They’ll eat the babies.” She turned to Cory. “They’re all alive,” she said. I’m alive.

  “They missed you. You’re the one who talks to them.”

  “You should breakfast with them,” Helen said playfully.

  Helen leaned forward and pulled Cory closer. She kissed her. A first kiss, a new kiss. The kiss she would always have Cory feel. A kiss that promised love and life. A kiss that would swell and explode in Cory’s head, suck the breath out of her, and charge her with a powerful current.

  Helen pulled her mouth away. “Hello, you lovely woman.”

  “Hi,” Cory said, flushed from Helen’s kiss. “You’re here. I don’t believe it.”

  Helen tugged at Cory’s jacket. “And I don’t believe you’re in wool. I’m not going far. Get rid of this outfit and come back to me.”

  Helen wheeled into the kitchen. Her eyes devoured every plate glass cabinet, every white tile. Maybe one day, a day when Cory was out peddling her talent, Helen would chisel out a block and replace it with a lavender one. It would read: Helen Loves Cory. A Rice Krispie sat alone on the alcove table. Good. She wanted it there, and a few more, if they need be. They were just one of life’s little piss-me-offs that she could grumble about and then thank God she was alive to see them.

  Cory approached from behind. Helen swung her chair around and rested her eyes on her. The real prize for surviving looked more comfortable and even more adorable in azure blue. She was her reason for living and for loving again. Cory had spent countless hours at the hospital, mothering, humoring, and showing a spark of jealousy over the attentive aide. Now, devoted to the care of Helen, she had canceled her tour until March.

  She pulled up a chair and tossed Helen a Fanny Brice smile. The same smile that had flickered through Helen’s mind as the fuselage exploded in front of her. Helen’s eyes brimmed with tears and Cory held her as best she could.

  Cory sobbed. “I thought I might lose you.”

  Cool hair brushed against Helen’s cheek. She moved slowly against it. The scent of fresh shampoo blended with Giorgio’s Wings. A citrus garden, a tropical drink, Helen buried her toes into the warm sand.

  “I couldn’t help but live.” Helen stole a deep breath. “Still want to be my girl?”

  “Still.”

  How still it must have been after the crash, after the explosions. So many lives lost. Helen cried in Cory’s arms. Deep, painful sobs wracked her body. Her head felt on the verge of its own explosion. “Don’t let go,” she said. “I feel safe in your arms.”

  “You’re safe, but I think you should call Dr. Ingram. I didn’t like your look in the van.”

  Helen pulled away. “You look good in that shade of blue,” she said, but Cory wouldn’t buy the flattery.

  “I’m serious. I think this is important for you.”

  “I’ll call her. I promise.”

  *

  Helen slept through most of the afternoon. A sound, peaceful sleep, a gift from whatever angel guarded her. Lemon or honeysuckle tickled at her nose. Warm breath against her forehead would alight and then be gone. She drifted back into sleep and awaited the angel’s return.

  When she awakened, she was thankful that her place was on the right side of the bed. The farther away Cory was from the facial scar, the better. She traced the tender incision with her finger. From the tip of her chin to the back of her jaw—but she stopped there and thanked God she was alive.

  “Hey,” Cory said, when she entered the bedroom. “How about a cup of tea?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Cory assisted Helen’s move from the bed and into the wheelchair. That was a cumbersome act which included Helen sitting up and entering the chair in the opposite way that she’d left it. There was time and she took advantage. Cory was a saint with her patience.

  On the breakfast table, beside her cup of tea, was a manila envelope. In large letters, obviously Stacey’s handwriting, was Helen’s name.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “Stacey gave that to me a few days after your accident. She asked me to take a look and decide if you should see the contents.” She looked at the envelope as though she still weighed the decision. “I’ve decided you would want to see the photos.”

  Helen took the envelope and opened it. She reached inside and pulled out a stack of newspaper articles and photographs. Stacey had written a brief cover letter, and Helen read it out loud.

  “‘Hey, Blondie. I hope you wo
n’t regard the pictures as a malicious act on my part. I know the reporter in you, and she always wants the full story. Now you have it. I love you, Stacey.’”

  Helen studied the newspaper photos of the plane wreckage. Split and mangled, the entire right side of the fuselage, several hundred yards from the plane’s eventual stop, was a blackened shell. Helen’s and Blair’s seats had been on the left side. That side, nearly crushed like a bug from impact, was circled by rescue vehicles and people.

  Okay, that’s exactly what Helen had expected to see—carnage, in black and white. She didn’t remember the moment of impact, only what she saw in her dreams, and could now remove herself from the photos in spite of her injuries. What she felt was sadness for the seventy-three people who had died. After skimming the articles Stacey had included, she set the papers aside.

  “All I know is I’m hurting and these pictures tell me why.”

  “You missed some. There’s another envelope inside.”

  She found the envelope and withdrew several 5x7 glossy and full-color photos. The first was a side shot of a blanketed and bandaged person. On the next was a full facial shot.

  She looked at Cory. “This is me?”

  “Stacey took the pictures one day when she was alone with you.”

  Helen looked back at the bandaged face. “Holy shit.”

  Purples and blues and reds. A red, ripened summer plum. It was the closest she could come to describing the small area of her face that remained visible. Only around the oxygen tube in her mouth, and the swell of her lips and eyes, was there evidence that she was a living human being, and not the carcass of a soul bound for a funeral pyre.

  She looked back at the full-length photo. The sheet that covered her was higher, smoother on the right side, a reminder of the plaster molding beneath it that held her leg together.

  In another photo, a heart monitor kept steady rhythm while piggybacked intravenous solutions dripped into long tubes connected to the backs of both hands. Another tube fed blood into her system, while a third led to a smaller bag labeled Morphine. Bound by plaster, tubes, and wires, hooked up to life-supporting machines that go beep-beep into the night, she appeared more like a science fiction creation than a woman.

  She placed the pictures back into the envelope. “Welcome home, Helen,” she said to herself. “Makes me wonder how I survived.”