CHAPTER FIVE
I tried to make eye contact with Dr. Tovar while we were involved in the process of cleaning up our patient.
When the man’s shirt came off, I could see that he was covered in grim prison-looking tattoos. He talked angrily to his friend, but mostly in Spanish, so it wasn’t illuminating. And Tovar ignored any pointed looks I gave him.
What I was trying to say with my eyeballs was, Are you going to report this? I knew we were supposed to report all gunshot wounds that anyone received to the police. And keep the bullets too. But now wasn’t the time, not in front of the patient, and this was not my place.
“Why don’t you go to my office, Miss Spence,” Tovar said when he was almost done. I inhaled to argue, and then remembered the wisdom of not doing so for once. I took off my gloves, washed my hands, and went outside.
I figured it was going to take him a while to clean up, and I owed it to myself to see if the elderly woman had come back. I went up to the hallway door, looked around at the waiting room through the thin pane of wire glass, and didn’t see anyone out there but a janitor scrubbing at the bloodstain on the floor.
I tried the handle and stepped out, keeping the door open with my foot. I looked around the room until I was confident I’d seen it all and gave the janitor a shy wave for interrupting him.
The old woman was gone. Damn.
Was Santa Muerte an actual saint to that woman? Or a personal friend? A concept—or an entity? I wished she was still around to ask, or that the Shadows’ request had been more specific. They could have at least given me a Wheel of Fortune clue. If finding Santa Muerte—the person, place, or thing—would make them heal my mom, then somehow I would. I quietly walked back down the hall to Dr. Tovar’s office to wait for him.
* * *
It took an hour for him to finish up, which I used to confirm that the medical books on the shelves were actually old. Not spirits and humours old, but close. I hoped they weren’t using them for modern medical advice.
I touched the skin on my shoulder where his coat had scratched against it. Hard to believe that the man who’d been dismissing me so analytically this morning was that passionate about saving his patients. And yet— There was a cough from the hallway outside that let me know I’d been caught snooping.
“Sorry. I’m naturally curious.” I stepped back around the desk as Dr. Tovar came in. “What was all that about?” I asked, making guns with my thumbs and forefingers, and shooting them at the wall.
“Turf wars.” He looked like he didn’t know how to explain it to me. He was angry still, but holding it in. I could almost see it surge underneath his skin. If he’d been a were, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him change. He sat down, exterior calm, and I did the same. “It’s an election year. The current mayor’s cracking down on crime at the edges of our side of town. Less space, more pressure. It’s like putting the lid on a boiling pot.”
“Do people come here like that often?” I turned one of my imaginary handguns to shoot my own shoulder.
“Often enough.”
“And you don’t call for outside help?” Might as well be fearless about questions; I’d already been unhired for the day.
“There’s a reason they don’t call nine-one-one, you know.” The anger in his face relaxed to make his dark eyes look weary instead.
“What if that’d been worse?”
“Then I’d call. We’re a clinic, not an emergency department. I wouldn’t let him die over his or my pride.” He shrugged. “Do you bring gloves everywhere you go?”
I nodded. “Hand sanitizer too. The world’s a disgusting place.”
He agreed with a snort, and appeared to be studying the top of his desk, thinking hard.
“Who is Maldonado?” I asked him.
The question made him glance up at me. He began shaking his head, frowning deeply. “You saw things you shouldn’t have today, Nurse Spence.”
While I might not have heard that particular line before, boy, had I heard others just like it. I held my breath.
“I suppose you think I have to hire you now. Or you’ll tell people how I run things down here.”
While I might not have been above blackmail for a good reason, getting a job was not one of them. “No. I don’t think that at all. I’m not judging you in the least.” His eyes narrowed as I went on. “I’ve had to work at some … interesting places before. Ones I couldn’t really put on my résumé.”
His eyebrows rose. “Being a witness to attempted murder doesn’t put you off?”
If he only knew the kinds of secrets I’d had to keep. “Without going into details—trust me. I’ve seen worse.”
He tilted his head forward. “That’s funny. You look like the kind of person who goes talking to police.”
“I’m confused—do you want me to be incredibly honorable and report you to authorities and not get hired? Or do you want me to be useful, morally hazy, and gainfully employed? Because personally I like the one where I wind up with a job.”
At my protest, his face had the smallest flicker of a smile. “You do seem to understand some of our natural expediencies, and actually have basic nursing skills. Those things might be more valuable to me than you speaking Spanish, the way our summer’s going so far.”
I squinted at him. “Are you offering to hire me?”
“Yes. If you want it, against my better judgment, the job’s yours.”
This was what I’d wanted, right? But now—like so many other times before—it wasn’t how I’d wanted it. Still, this place was my only link to Santa Muerte, whoever or whatever she may be.
“Oh, so now you’re wise enough to be scared?” he asked, sounding smug.
How could I even answer that? “I want the job.”
“See you tomorrow then. At eight A.M.,” he said, and pointed toward the door.
I nodded. I was halfway down the hall when I realized he’d never given me an answer about Maldonado.
* * *
The waiting room was still empty when I reached it, although the janitor was done. Maybe that woman would be back tomorrow. She’d called out to Santa Muerte like she knew her personally—in prayer, no less. Rosary and all.
Praying while using a rosary smacked of comfortable familiarity. If even one person knew of a Santa Muerte, no matter who or what that was, there were bound to be others. I’d just have to find them.
The same early-teens kid from before blocked my path. “Oh, lady, you still need a limpieza. Bad. I have the don, I can tell.”
“How can I need that if I don’t even know what that is?” There was drying blood on the ground outside too, slightly darker than the rest of the surrounding stains on the cement. I wondered if the janitor had even tried to clean it up out here.
“My grandfather, Don Pedrito, he can heal you.” He patted his chest with authority.
“Look.” He was thin, rail-thin, with wrists that my hands could wrap around, the fingers meeting and then some. “I don’t have any money. But tomorrow I’ll be here. I’ll bring you a sandwich.”
He pulled his head back as though he’d been hit. “I don’t need your charity!”
“And I don’t need your limp-pizza. Whatever the hell that is.” I stepped around the blood on the ground.
“You’ll need it eventually. You have a curse on you. You’ll see.”
“Maybe tomorrow. But not tonight.”
He heaved a sigh and glared at me. I shrugged and walked around him, and then walked the two blocks back to the train station in the daylight. I wasn’t scared in the crowd anymore. I felt alive.
And when I got home I called up the sleep clinic to officially quit.
CHAPTER SIX
I felt substantially less alive at six thirty the next morning. I’d gone to sleep easily enough, thanks again to Ambien. But six thirty was early enough to make me feel frail. I got out of bed like the floor might roll away from me, then stumbled up to make coffee, take a shower, and head out the door. I
remembered to make a sandwich for myself before I left, and an extra sandwich for that kid too. I could eat it later if I didn’t see him again.
I was tempted to call my mom from the train, to make plans to see her tonight, but I didn’t know what her sleep schedule was like. I made a mental note to call her later.
The ride felt different today. The train shook back and forth on the rails, the early-morning light strobing through the windows, looking like the beginning of an old-time film reel. I reached the right station at seven forty-five A.M. and descended the stairs.
“This phone’s mine, move your damn blanket over!” This morning I noticed a row of pay phones, long since missing their earpieces, and surely free of dimes. They now provided the backbone for a cardboard shelter where two homeless people were arguing over the edges of their blankets.
There were more people milling, getting on and off the train. It was windy today, thank goodness, creating a rare breeze. It sent pieces of trash scudding around on the ground, weaving in between people’s feet, looking like they too were queuing up for the train.
I moved to the periphery and struck out for Divisadero. I walked past shit by the side of the road that looked, to my clinical eye, too big to be from a dog. I’d have to be more careful where I stepped today.
I looked behind me and wondered if the man I’d helped treat was somewhere in the crowd—or if those who’d come to get him were. I didn’t think I saw anyone I recognized, but I did walk a little faster at the thought.
The same bloodstain was there on the stoop when I reached the clinic doors. Blood’s really hard to get out of a lot of things, especially cement. I was pondering this when I heard a small moan from behind me.
I jumped and turned around. It didn’t sound human, really, more like wind stroking past the end of an open glass bottle. I heard it again. I stood there on the sidewalk for a second, overly conscious of my attempts to avoid stepping on the stain from yesterday’s altercation, trying to locate the source of the sound with my ears.
“Hey, lady.”
The kid from yesterday walked up the block. “Hey,” I said back.
“You still need a limpieza. I can tell.”
“Yeah, that’s still not gonna happen. I gotta get to work. First day on the job.” I pointed with my thumb to the clinic behind me. He wagged his head in exaggerated disapproval at my playing for the other team. “I’m Edie. Who’re you?”
“I’m Olympio.”
“What do you do all day, Olympio?” It was summer now, otherwise I’d have asked him why he wasn’t off at school.
He grinned, showing uneven teeth. “Try to stop people from going in there. You all can’t do half the things my grandfather can.”
“How so?”
“You all take months to figure out what’s wrong with someone, and then pills for the rest of their lives. My grandfather, he can heal you in just one day.”
As a nurse, I’d heard all sorts of holistic health bullshit. I’d seen patients who’d been burned by cupping, who had made themselves ill by eating mislabeled “remedy” pills contaminated with lead. “Yeah?” I said, my eyebrows rising.
“Yeah. You got something wrong with you, lady. I can tell. I don’t know what it is, but my grandfather is a great curandero, he’d know.”
“Well.” I was quiet for a moment, trying to hear the sound again. There was a storm drain across the street—it could be wind going by its entrance. “Well—” I regrouped. “I disagree. No, wait. Actually, I do agree—there’s something wrong with me.” I was sure I looked worried about my mom. I’d seen it in the mirror this morning, in the corners of my eyes. “But it’s not the kind of thing that other people can fix.”
“My grandfather—”
“I’m late for work. I brought an extra sandwich, though. For lunch. Maybe I could trade you for it, and you could tell me more. At noontime.”
He leaned back, casual, ready for wherever business took him. “Hey, I’ll be here trying to rescue people from you all, all day.”
I grinned at him. “Make sure you stand in the shade. I don’t want to know what your grandfather does for heatstroke.”
* * *
I went into the clinic. There were already three people waiting. The receptionist saw me and buzzed me in. I went through the door, and as it thunked shut Dr. Tovar stuck his head out of his office. “It’s eight oh five. Are you always late?”
“Sorry.”
“I know you didn’t get lost, seeing as you were here yesterday,” he went on, and then pointed down the hall. “Catrina will get you set up. Your first patient’s a tecato, needs a dressing changed on an abscess.” Then he slammed the door.
Another woman came to my side and rescued me from the hallway, pulling me into a short corridor lined with rooms.
“I’m Catrina. And he’s not always a hard-ass. He just thought you quit was all.” She wore much the same outfit as she had yesterday, a pink scrub top seamed in purple, with matching scrub pants. She had light brown skin and short cropped black hair. Her face’s angular cheekbones gave her back the traditional femininity that the short hair took away. “Is it true you don’t speak Spanish?”
“What’s a tecato?” I asked in response.
She stuck out her lower lip and blew air up her face. “You’re going to be useless here.”
“I really want this job,” I protested.
“Why?” She leaned in toward me. “Are you some sort of stupid do-gooder?”
“No. Yes. But no.” I took a step away. I couldn’t really say, Hey, I’m looking for Santa Muerte so I can trade her in to get a favor for my mom, and I heard someone talk about her in your waiting room yesterday.
She crossed her arms and squinted at me. I saw a strange tattoo on the back of one of her fingers, but now was not the time to ask about it. “You have a record?”
“What?” She’d startled me.
“Shoplifting. DUI. Something dumb,” she guessed.
“No!” I protested. “I just hated my last job is all. I need to work here.”
“I don’t want to waste time training you if you’re just going to leave.”
That was a reasonable enough fear. I crossed my heart in a Catholic fashion. “I promise not to.”
“Oh, well, now that you’ve crossed, I believe you for sure,” she said, her voice dripping with irony. “Do you even have scrubs to wear?”
“Yes—I just—” It hadn’t occurred to me to bring them. I wasn’t used to wearing scrubs during the day. “I should have brought some in. I’ll bring them in tomorrow.”
“If I did not see you jump in to help that gangbanger yesterday—” She ran a hand through her short hair. “Tecatos are heroin addicts,” she said, and watched to see if I’d flinch. “You’re not going to get grossed out, are you?”
“No. I’m good with addicts, Spanish or not.” At least here I’d get paid to deal with them, unlike all the times I’d tried to help out my brother. “Who else will I see? What else will I do?”
“Didn’t you ask any questions?”
“I was busy not getting hired—until I got hired.” I gave her a weak smile and she sighed again.
“Well.” Her hands found her hips. “You’ll be double-checking the work the medical assistants do—there’s three of us. I’ve been here the longest, and I’m also a phlebotomist,” she said, like I ought not to forget those facts. “Other than that, there’s wound care, people with diabetes, missing toes, some ostomy checks, paperwork, more paperwork, oh, and when shit hits the fan, you’ll be doing triage.”
“How often does that happen?”
“Every few months. When the gangs go to war. The ambulances come for the dead guys, and we get the live ones.”
“When’s the last time that happened?”
Her lips thinned into a line. “We’re due. It’s the heat outside or something. Makes people angry and dumb.”
“Does Dr. Tovar report things?” I didn’t want to straight-out ask about the b
ullet wound from yesterday.
Her face said she got my meaning, even as she chose not to answer me. “Depends on the thing.”
I gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Okay.” I wasn’t a stickler for the rules, especially when I didn’t know what they were.
She handed over a set of keys. “Anything that can be stolen is locked down, and everything can be stolen.” I could see her mentally dismissing any prior hospital experience I had. “I’m not sure where you worked at before. Most people are nice, and even the bad ones need our help. But there’s a reason we’re separated from the outside world with bulletproof plastic.”
* * *
I was quiet while she gave me the rest of the tour. There were three small rooms that they saw people in, in addition to Dr. Tovar’s private office, and a slightly larger office in the center of the building with an attached break room. Then she put me into the first patient room and said, “Wait here.”
I waited. I tried keys until I found the one that unlocked the cabinets, so I could figure out what was where. I was shoving boxes of gauze aside when the doors opened behind me and a man walked in.
“He’s got a fever. His name is Frank,” Catrina called from the hall behind him.
I knew hazing when I saw it—or smelled it. I stepped aside, and gestured for him to sit down on the table. He was Caucasian, but he’d been in a lot of sun. He stumbled over to the table, leaned against it for a bit like he might puke or fall to the floor, before remembering to turn around and sit down.
He had an odor like stale beer and pee and whatever else you smell like when you never take a bath and you’ve worn the same pants for a month.
“Hello, Frank. How can I help you?”
He looked me up and down—even his gaze was disgusting. Between my nurse radar and a lifetime of being female, I knew then that the next phrase out of his mouth was going to be inappropriate.
“You can give me a kiss,” he said slowly, leaning dangerously forward.
I put a hand on one shoulder to press him back upright. “No, thank you. Why’re you here?”
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