Hello Hollywood

by Suzanne Corso

  A nurse quickly appeared, a pretty little thing in a crisp white uniform, her blond hair drawn back into a ponytail. “Ms. DeMarco, if you could calm down, please, we—”

  “Calm down? Calm the hell down?” I sobbed, shouted, struggled. “I need to know . . . about John. About Prince. About the people who were shot. Please, my God, please tell me what’s going on.”

  The nurse patted my forearm, spoke softly, gently, her voice a soothing balm. “Hey, it’s okay. You were restrained out of precaution, okay? You have six stitches in your right temple, eight stiches in your chin, and a fractured left rib. Your left wrist was broken and will be in a cast for six weeks. Do you understand what I’m saying, Ms. DeMarco?”

  What? What?

  I nodded, blinked back tears, stared down at my left wrist. At the cast. It was lightweight, a pale blue, and suddenly, the skin beneath it itched terribly. “Y-yes,” I stammered. “Did you . . . understand my questions? About . . . the others?”

  The nurse, whose name tag read PEG CISCO, RN, said, “Yes.” As she checked the IVs that ran into my left arm, she continued. “I’m not supposed to say anything about the other patients. But . . . I understand your need to know.” She removed my restraints, picked up an iPad mini, tapped the screen. “John Steeling and George Prince are still in surgery. What are the names of the other people you need to know about?”

  I couldn’t remember. My mind had been wiped clean. I was suddenly Arnold Schwarzenegger in Total Recall, my brain washed of memories of my trip to Mars.

  Think, you know the answers.

  “A woman in the . . . art department . . . Barbara . . . I don’t know her last name. And one of the . . . assistant directors. Shit . . . he has the same last name as a president . . . Lincoln, his last name is Lincoln.”

  I rubbed my free hands over my face. The cast felt strange, an intruder, and the itch beneath it persisted. I tried to stick my finger under the cast to scratch at my skin, but it didn’t work very well. Peg handed me a pen. “This always works best.” She tapped away on her iPad again. “Barbara . . .” Peg glanced up. I knew from the shadows in her eyes what she was about to say. “She . . . didn’t survive. The other man . . . Dave Lincoln? Is that the right name?”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s it.”

  “He’s still in surgery and is expected to survive.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, struggling not to cry, sob, scream, or leap out of bed.

  And then it hit me. The four hawks. They were the omens. I didn’t know how such a thing was possible, but I remembered what John had said about the murder of crows he’d seen the day he was released from prison. The crows had proved to be positive omens for him. The hawks, not at all. Four hawks, and at least four injuries or deaths to people associated with Brooklyn Story.

  “What . . . other injuries?” I whispered. “On the set?”

  More tapping on her iPad. “Just the four. Some people were injured trying to get out of the park, but not critically. Scrapes, bruises, stitches.”

  I couldn’t hold back tears, floodgates slammed open, all the Catholic guilt rushed in. The kind of guilt that you couldn’t dodge in the confessional, the kind of guilt that left the priest reeling and doling out penances of several dozen Hail Marys and more dozens of the Lord’s Prayer, and who the hell knew what else. My soul was fucked, that was how I felt.

  My fault. Because of Paul. If I’d never slept with him, if I’d never ended it with him, if, if, if . . .

  So much of my life had been predicated on if or what if, and right now, it was the only thing I could think about. What if I had done things differently, behaved differently toward Paul? What if I hadn’t ended it with him? Was this my Sliding Doors?

  If that version of events had happened, was there running parallel to this universe one in which no one had died today? Where I was still with Paul? If so, then on this alternative path of personal history, John and I had never become lovers; I had never known the exquisite joy I’d experienced overnight in his strange outdoor dome.

  The things I knew were spit in the wind when compared to what I didn’t know about anything.

  “Ms. DeMarco?”

  “Sam.” I blinked and focused on her, the nurse, Peg Cisco. “My name’s Sam.”

  “Sam. Okay, Sam. Do you need to use the bathroom?”

  Yeah, now that she mentioned it, my bladder was filled to bursting. “Yes.”

  “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

  “Definitely.”

  “What’s the date?”

  That depended on how long I’d been blacked out. Since I didn’t know what time it was or how long I’d been out, I gave her a range of dates. I was apparently correct, because she then asked who the president of the United States was.

  Another cognitive question. “Obama.”

  She flashed a smile filled with dazzling white teeth. I apparently had passed some sort of test. “Excellent.” She helped me sit up. “Let’s get you into the bathroom. I’ll order some food.”

  Peg helped me to the bathroom. Even though my legs weren’t injured in any way, I had trouble putting one foot in front of the other. I had trouble stringing my thoughts together in a sequence of time. But when I finally formed a question in my mind, I blurted it. “The shooter. Can you tell me . . . about him? His . . . status?”

  She tapped again at her iPad. “Name?”

  “Paul Jannis.”

  More tapping. “Still in surgery.”

  “For?”

  “Blunt head trauma.”

  Shit, that was me; I had done that.

  “And gunshot wounds.”

  “But he . . . had the gun.”

  “The cops were armed.” We reached the door of the bathroom. “You need help inside?”

  The cops were armed. That translated as: The cops shot Paul.

  “Sam? Hey, hello?” Peg said. “Do you need help getting to the toilet?”

  I shook my head. I was forty-five years old and felt like I was twice that age. But damned if anyone was going to help me take a piss. “I’m . . . fine. I need a shower.”

  “Just be sure to wrap plastic around the cast so it doesn’t get wet. You’ll find a plastic bag on the shelf above the sink.”

  I gripped the edge of the door frame, pulled myself into the bathroom. Shut the door. Then I grabbed the edge of the sink, made my way to the toilet, and collapsed onto it.

  I snapped a towel off the rack, pressed it over my face, and sobbed. I wept for the dead, the injured, all the victims of my bad choice in men. Every part of me ached, throbbed, and all I wanted to do was crawl into a cave somewhere and drift into a dormant state, like a bear in winter.

  I sat there until my bladder was empty, my tears dried up, until I had nothing more to do than to get off the toilet, strip off my hospital gown, turn on the shower. I made sure to pull the plastic bag over my cast.

  I didn’t know how long I stood under the hot spray, but when I stepped out, I felt as if I had washed away most of the inner stuff that made me feel soiled, guilty. I pulled on the hospital gown, dried my hair and body, opened the door.

  There was Peg, my caregiver, my connection to the larger hospital world.

  “When can I get outta here, Peg?” I asked.

  She looked at me, this pretty young blonde who was probably in her late twenties, nearly young enough to be my daughter. “They want to keep you for the night. Your vitals are good; your injuries aren’t life threatening. Let us take care of you for the night, Sam.”

  “Can I have visitors?”

  “You bet.” She slipped my phone out of her pocket, passed it to me. “This sucker has been dinging like crazy.”

  I gripped the phone, wove my way back to the bed, collapsed onto it. Someone had delivered a meal of hot soup, Jell-O, a piece of buttered whole-wheat bread. I was famished and started shovelin
g the food in my mouth.

  “I can let them in two at a time,” Peg said.

  I nodded, pulled the sheet over my body, glanced at my phone, at the dozens of text messages and emails. My vision blurred, all I could think of was John; of how much blood I’d seen; of his being in surgery, fighting for his life. “Can you keep me posted . . . on John Steeling and the others?”

  “Of course. I’m on for twelve hours today.” She tucked the sheet in around my feet. “You’ll have a room shortly, within the hour. Your first visitors are here, Sam.”

  The first person to walk into my ER area was Isabella, then Liza. I burst into tears and kept right on crying as they hugged me, as they sat with me, as my daughter and my closest friend and I prayed for John, for Prince, for all the others who had been injured. And in the end, we also prayed for ourselves.

  EIGHTEEN

  Since my room on the third floor was private, I was permitted to have visitors twenty-four/seven, so Liza and Isabella stuck around most of the day. They brought me updates. But other than the fact that everyone was out of surgery and in ICU, not much had changed. John hadn’t regained consciousness and remained in critical condition.

  They left that evening. Liza had assured me she would get Isabella back to Filomena’s place for the night and then would pick her up in the morning before I was released. I tucked my freshly charged cell next to me on the bed, strangely grateful that I was in the hospital for the night because I was closer to John here than I would have been at the hotel. Nonetheless, I lay there feeling anxious about him. Why hadn’t Peg the nurse been in to give me a recent update? Did that mean he’d taken a turn for the worse and she didn’t know how to break the news?

  My anxiety deepened. I turned on the television, and the local news was about the shooting rampage in the park.

  “The names of the deceased haven’t been released yet, pending notification of next of kin,” said the female newscaster on CNN. “The shooter is presently in the hospital, under police guard, and hasn’t been identified. But we do know he’s a white male in his forties who was associated with the filming of Brooklyn Story. Two of the victims, John Steeling and George Prince, underwent surgery this morning for multiple gunshot wounds and are in critical condition.”

  Critical. I texted John’s son.

  How’s your dad doing? Any word?

  His response was immediate.

  No word yet. Glad u r ok. Liza gave us update. Nina & I will be at the hospital till we know something. Will keep u posted.

  K. Thanx.

  I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes, dimly aware of the newscaster’s voice droning on about the shooting, the movie. She mentioned the lineup of actors and actresses in the film, talked abut the novel upon which the movie was based. I heard my name. Under any other circumstances, hearing my name on CNN would have thrilled me. Now it left me feeling cold and cursed, like the wicked witch in every fairy tale I’d ever read.

  “Brian King, CEO of Gallery Studios, which is filming Brooklyn Story, is about to issue a statement.”

  I glanced up at the screen, raised the volume. King looked haggard, older. He wore the same clothes he’d had on this morning—jeans, a work shirt, moccasins. His jeans were splattered with blood.

  “On behalf of my colleagues at Gallery Studios, our thoughts and prayers go out to the families and loved ones of our beloved friends who were injured and killed in this rampage. We’ll be issuing further statements about the time and place for memorial services. Thank you.”

  “Mr. King,” shouted a reporter. “Can you tell us how this tragedy will impact the filming of Brooklyn Story?”

  King’s haunted eyes peered out at the reporter, and he shook his head. “Right now, I have no idea. Our primary concern is the healing of those who were injured and attending to the families of the victims. Thank you for your time.”

  He turned and walked back inside the hospital, and I sat there, tears coursing down my cheeks, blaming myself. If I hadn’t . . . if Paul hadn’t . . . if, if, and fucking if again.

  “Sam?” Peg the nurse hurried in. “Not much news. Mr. Steeling and Mr. Prince are both still in critical condition. I’m about to sign out for the night, but I wanted to check back with you first. Can I get you anything?”

  “What were his injuries?” I asked.

  Peg’s frown told me she was uncomfortable divulging that information. “I really shouldn’t . . .”

  “Please?”

  She held my gaze for a moment longer, then brought out her iPad, scrolled through it. “Are you sure you want to know?” she asked.

  “I’d rather know than sit here the rest of the night gnawing my knuckles.”

  “In layman’s terms, he had a severe injury to his right shoulder that will require extensive physical therapy when he’s released. The joint had to be replaced. He also sustained a gunshot wound to the stomach that caused internal bleeding and required surgery. His blood pressure continues to drop, suggesting that he’s still bleeding internally, and his temperature is spiking, indicative of a bacterial infection. He’s on IV antibiotics and is being monitored carefully. He’s heavily sedated on morphine.”

  “My God,” I whispered.

  “Honey, he’s young and physically fit. That’s on his side. And he had excellent surgeons.”

  But was it enough? “May I see him?”

  “His son is in with him now. ICU allows only one family member at a time, and since you’re not family, you wouldn’t be able to get in.” She hooked me up to the blood pressure machine, brought out a thermometer, did her nurse thing.

  “What about Mr. Jannis?” I asked.

  “He’s in a coma.”

  “Am I going to be able to get outta here tomorrow?”

  “You should. Your vitals look good. You want something to help you sleep?”

  “The only way I’m going to be able to sleep is if I can see Mr. Steeling.”

  Peg regarded me for a long moment, then picked up a pad of paper off the nightstand and scribbled something on it. She tore a sheet off the pad, folded it, handed it to me. “No can do. I’m sorry. I won’t be in until the three p.m. shift tomorrow. Let’s trade cell numbers, okay?”

  So we did, and her text made me smile.

  I’m a huge fan of yr work. Read the note.

  “You take care, Sam. I can’t wait to see you at the Oscars.”

  Without another word, she left the room, and I unfolded the note she’d given me. He’s in room 424, one floor up. Go around 11 p.m., when shifts are changing. There’s a nurse’s uniform and a stethoscope in your closet. Speak to him. He’ll be able to hear you.

  I slipped her note inside my bag, then threw off the sheet and swung my legs over the side of the bed. As I stood, I felt much steadier than I had earlier, and padded over to the closet. Sure enough, a nurse’s uniform hung from a hanger, and it looked to be about my size. Liza had brought over a change of clothes and shoes for me, as well as toiletries, a hairbrush, and a hair dryer. I shut the closet door and glanced at the clock on the wall.

  Ten p.m. The countdown to eleven had begun.

  • • •

  At ten-thirty a doctor dropped by, asked the usual questions about how did I feel and was I ready to get out in the morning. He said my vitals looked good and yada, yada. I just wanted him to leave so I could put on the nurse’s uniform and head upstairs to see John.

  “If I’m in such good shape, why was I admitted for the night?” I asked.

  “Mainly for observation.”

  I kept watching the hands on the wall clock, one of those big, ugly clocks I associated with classrooms in middle school. Black numbers, black hands. Ticktock, ticktock.

  “Am I going to be able to get a good night’s sleep in here?” I asked. “Or is someone going to come in and wake me every two hours?”

  He
was going through a checklist on his iPad and looked up, amused. “Every four hours someone will be in. But they won’t need to wake you. In fact, I’ll make a note to that effect.”

  Ticktock. Please leave now. He’d been here for six minutes.

  The minute hand moved again. Seven minutes. Ticktock.

  “I’m delighted you’re doing so well, Ms. DeMarco. And I’m sorry for the loss you and your friends suffered today.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’ll be released around ten tomorrow morning.”

  Eight minutes. Ticktock.

  He made some more notations on his iPad, then finally left. I waited a few moments to make sure he wouldn’t return, then leaped out of bed and hurried over to the closet.

  I grabbed the nurse’s uniform and my own shoes, a pair of Scratchers with memory foam soles, and slipped into the bathroom. Fortunately, the cast was on my forearm and didn’t impede my ability to bend my arm. I changed quickly. The uniform fit remarkably well, and I wondered where Peg had gotten it. Was there, somewhere in the bowels of the hospital, a wardrobe department like there was on a movie set?

  I brushed my hair, gathered it back into a ponytail. That seemed appropriate for a hospital. I hadn’t seen any nurses here who wore much makeup other than a touch of lipstick and mascara, so that’s what I used. The one item I lacked was a name tag. Hopefully, with the shifts changing and people arriving and leaving, no one would notice.

  I pulled on my Scratchers, grabbed my phone, noted the time: 10:57. Perfect. I put the phone into a pocket in the uniform and hurried toward the door. The shoes, with their memory foam padding, felt good against my bare feet. It was like walking on clouds, on air. In these shoes, I could do anything, be anyone, I could somehow bring John back to me.

  I cracked the door open, peered out. Elevator or stairs? I spotted an EXIT sign at the end of the hall. Stairs it would be.

  Deep breath, check the hall once more. Believe, Sam, believe.

  I slipped out the door and walked right—quickly but not so fast that I drew attention to myself. I was nearly to the EXIT sign when an elderly man stuck his head out the door. “Nurse, could you please give me a hand with something?”