The weight on his chest made flight awkward. He felt like a fish swimming up an endless staircase. Finally, he reached a navigable layer that could support them. Stretching his arms in front to reduce shear and putting his feet behind him like a rudder, he tucked his head between his arms and sped forward.
From time to time, he looked down at Ivan. The boy held his arms straight out in faithful imitation. When Ben’s body tilted or dipped, he didn’t fight it. He mimicked his father’s every move, probably wondering why he’d never been taken here before. They brushed against a cloud and Ivan tried to shake the droplets from his face. They passed a flock of geese and Ivan waved at them briefly, but then put his arm back in place, keeping his body in line with his father’s. A steady string of spit slid from his amazed mouth. It was a struggle for him to keep his eyes open in the wind. If Ben were truly switched on, he would have brought swimming goggles for Ivan and jackets for both of them.
From above, their destination was easy to find. The top of the stately brick-red dome stuck out of the hillside when they were still a good ten minutes away. He pushed on through the wind, shifting downward to capture some of the earth’s warmth. There was the circuit that earthlings were restricted to: the highway to the bridge to the local road; the traffic circle where you forked left after the reservoir; and the maze of smaller roads that took you to the hotel’s long driveway. Ben followed a straight line over it all. There were no missed exits when you traveled like this—no blind turns, no traffic. From above, the unity of all places was clear—this highway connected to that road, this part of the forest tilted away from that part of the forest in a softer green. Why couldn’t he live his life from such an angle?
The broad veranda would have been the logical place to set down, but guests were sitting on rockers, staring wistfully out at the lawn, and at least one navy-shirted staff member was visible. This was not the kind of establishment where he wanted to stage a photo op. It wasn’t fair. Birds could do what they wanted without anyone asking them questions.
The lawn around the hotel was dotted with patrons. There was a family croquet game going on and some boys in matching lime polo shirts, collars up, playing miniature golf by a stream. Poseurs. Ben found a gap in a nearby hedge, a respectable distance away from other guests. It was suitable for landing. He unharnessed Ivan and the boy collapsed on the ground in a happy heap, still damp and shivering from the cold. He threw his arms in the air—not to be picked up, but to remember the feeling. He looked up at Ben with drunken awe as they warmed themselves on the lawn.
The concierge gave the faintest nod as the barefoot man led his son through the paneled lobby toward the stairs. Ivan ran ahead to the second-floor balcony.
When Ben caught up, the boy was telling an old man in a linen suit, “I bird Daddy.”
“You birded your Daddy?”
Ivan put his arms out in front of him. The man put his arms out too. Ivan nodded up at him earnestly. Ben was temporarily grateful that his son’s verbal skills weren’t in the higher percentiles.
Ben sweetly waved his arms too, smiling at the old man as he pushed his son back into the corridor.
“I bird,” Ivan shrieked at anyone walking by.
Ben couldn’t help himself. “Maybe someday Ivan bird, but today Daddy bird.”
Ivan pouted. “No. Ivan bird.”
“No. Daddy bird.”
Ben pulled Ivan into a stairwell and, with no breeze, performed a small loop up to the floor above and back down. He landed in front of Ivan. “Okay, your turn.”
The kid had nothing. Daddy. Bird. Having prevailed in a battle with a toddler, Ben continued their quest through the warren of added-on corridors.
Ben pointed to a guest room door and told Ivan, “This is where you were made.”
Ivan looked at Ben like he was being silly and began vocalizing “Daddy bird” in a dozen different tones.
Ben slowed down in front of a supply cupboard while a rickety older couple walked by. Once they had made their way past, Ben opened the door and took what he came for. Verification: a bar of soap.
That night after dinner, Janelle went to the sink and closed her eyes at Ben’s request. He washed her hands with the soap. She couldn’t see its cornmeal color or read the carved logo, but her sense of smell was legendary, at least in their house. He towel-dried each finger.
Ivan watched, not sure what was going on, but practically bursting with anticipation anyway.
Ben told her to open her eyes and he covered the soap with the towel.
They used to play this game more often, one making the other close their eyes and name the flavor of some food, or identify a fragrance. It was always something lovely, a precursor to a gift or a kiss. His mother had watched them do it a few times early on and made some comment about their gorgeous marriage. But Janelle would always win and Ben never would. Eventually that became part of too large a pattern between them, so Ben stopped instigating. His mother noticed the absence of the game too and had probably deduced they were headed for divorce. Janelle probably thought they were headed for the poorhouse. Ben wondered if Ivan had an opinion. There were sides to a family like there were sides to an argument and all of them were wrong. Alek’s model, however cracked it was, agreed with him: in this version, the marriage would work out.
He let go of her hands. “Sniff,” he said.
She held them to her nose.
“Clove, a woody smell; sweet but musky. I know I know it.”
Ben waited for the light of recognition. He gave her a clue—raised eyebrows and a glance at Ivan.
“Got it.” She brightened, grabbed for the soap, and turned it over to see the name of the hotel. One kiss on the cheek for Ben. “Thank you. It’s a very romantic thought.”
“There’s more where that came from,” he told her, about to tell her everything.
“I should hope so. It would be ridiculous for them to mail it out one little bar at a time. Let’s clean up.”
“No.” He had to keep her from housekeeping. “I picked it up myself. I went there.”
“All that way? When?”
“Daddy bird!”
“This morning. Wait a second. I think you’ll be surprised.”
Ben pushed a chair out of the way so he could get to the window.
“Our life is about to change,” he said.
“What does that even mean?”
“Daddy bird!”
“Enough, sweetie,” she said. “Did you teach him that?”
“Daddy teached.”
He had teached it, but he didn’t slow down and clicked open the safety bars on the window.
“Stop it. I don’t want Ivan seeing how to do that.”
Ben felt evangelical, like Alek must have felt about the diaper. He wanted to share everything with Janelle. He wanted to take her up over the city and show her the sights from above. The window open, he stuck his face into a warm breeze. It would provide perfect lift.
Janelle panicked at his eagerness. She became frantic, grabbing hold of his ankles as he climbed out onto their tiny balcony. “Please! Ben!”
“Let go.”
“I won’t! Come back in here! You can’t leave Ivan and me like this!”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
His bewilderment stopped her and she relaxed her grip for an instant. As soon as she did, he leaped onto the ledge. Janelle gasped.
“Daddy bird!”
And he was airborne.
Ruth
Ruth tightened the tourniquet on the old guy’s arm and tapped his vein three times with her forefinger. Holding the needle in her other hand, she went in. Even though he was sawdust dry, the sharp knew where to go. She scored the thin, dark line and pushed the vial onto the collector.
He flinched. She tightened her grip on his elbow and said, “Won’t be long. You’re doing great.”
Outside, it was already getting light. She could send this over to pathology, check on the patient next door,
write up the last notes, give handover to morning staff, dive into rush hour, and be home in bed by seven-thirty a.m. Golden.
“Is that enough, you little vampire?”
Ruth looked down at the vial in her hand. It was full, out of suction. She’d taken more than she needed.
“Yes, that’ll do.”
“For you, I can spare it,” he said with an unappetizing leer.
Ruth straightened herself while stabilizing his elbow, so she could slip away without jeopardizing the vein. She shaped her mouth into a smile as she unhitched the tourniquet and pulled the needle out.
Pressing the wad of cotton to his arm, she said, “Hold this there. Firm.”
Nurse! Please come here! I’m dying! Come right away!
The old man was sitting still, his two fingers obediently placed against the cotton at the joint of his arthritic arm. He was staring idly at her chest, not alarmed in the least.
Ruth took two steps toward the corridor to see if anyone was answering the call. The cleaner wheeled a bucket past, in no particular hurry.
Anybody! Please come!
No response. The voice was coming from the next room, where ancient Bella was slowly being taken down by pneumonia. She hadn’t eaten in three days. It couldn’t be her. Even if you were right in front of her lips, her voice wouldn’t have been audible over the rattle of her lungs.
Please!
“Aren’t you going to straighten up?”
Ruth looked behind her. Using his chin, the old man gestured at the needles and their wrappers on his tray table.
Ruth came back in with her efficiency face, lips tight. She collected the vials to send out, sweeping up the rest and dumping it into the yellow hazards container on the wall.
A quick squirt to disinfect her hands and she entered Bella’s room. No one else was there, aside from the wheezing patient. Ruth peered closely. The old woman’s eyes were shut, as they’d been for most of the last two nights. Her breaths were paced as far apart as could possibly sustain an old woman’s circulation. Each inhalation was the system’s last fail-safe. An old machine breaking down. She wouldn’t have been able to call out, let alone be heard in the next room. Ruth rested her hands on the bedrail. Bella’s fingers twitched, as if trying to reach them.
You heard me! Thank you so much. Please, don’t do anything. Just stay.
Her lips hadn’t moved.
Ruth imagined that she had imagined it. That was the answer. Bella’s breathing stopped and started again.
“I’ll be here for you,” Ruth said.
A reply came: That’s all you need to do. Sit.
Ruth dragged the visitor’s chair close to the bed and sat.
Surely this was the result of working too many nights in a row. The diurnal pattern of normal humans had been desecrated. Her brain told her to sit down because she needed to sit down.
Bella’s staccato continued. Ruth massaged Bella’s cool hands in the warmth of her own.
Ah, lovely, that’s what I want.
Ruth nearly let go of her fingers when she heard this but managed to maintain her composure. She was having a paranormal experience, right there in Room Nine. A container of lavender lotion sat on the side table. She poured some into her hands and smoothed it up and down each of Bella’s fingers.
Ahh.
Ruth couldn’t contain herself. “May I ask: what is it like?”
Pleasant enough, considering my regrets. She paused. My girls.
“I’ve met your girls. They’ve been here every day looking after you.”
I know. They’ve been trying, but they’re never going to have peace. They haven’t given any to their mother. How can they find it without her?
“There isn’t always harmony in families,” she said.
I’m talking about my family. My girls have provided me with more than my fair share of grief. Unspeakable times. It doesn’t matter now, naturally. It wasn’t on purpose. Even I can forgive the past. It’s strange. All these pieces you hold so tight, they drop their weight as if they never mattered.
This had to be projection. Ruth’s notion of death had always been a slow balloon trip upward, letting go of ballast all the way. This was Ruth telling herself how she always thought it would be.
“What do you see?”
Words don’t do it justice, but it’s familiar. Déjà vu, I suppose. It’s the same place I was before I was born, I think. How do you like that? All these decades of worrying and it’s the same place you started. Why don’t we spend more time being scared of birth?
Ruth had never had that thought before.
The breathing ground down, impossibly slow. Ruth put two fingers on the underside of Bella’s wrist and sensed her pulse coming to a halt. She controlled the urge to call a code. In three minutes the room could be filled with medics and equipment, shocking and cracking Bella back to life. But Ruth was confident the boxes had all been ticked. The family knew this was coming. They had been there every evening until visiting hours were over, waiting for her to finish fading. Nothing needed to be done except to let her go.
Ruth said, “Don’t worry, I’m here until the next shift comes on. Till your family comes in, whenever.”
You’re a dear, but I doubt I’ll be that long.
Ruth had to file that comment away too, because as soon as she heard it she realized that the breathing had ceased entirely. Bella had stopped. She died with a half-smirk on her face at 6:54 a.m.
A doctor was called to certify. Afterward, Ruth closed the door to the room and hung up the laminated sign to keep staff or family from walking in until they spoke with the nurse in charge. She made the call to notify one of Bella’s daughters but was only able to leave a message for her to phone the ward. A terrible message to leave on an answering machine. Ruth told the relevant staff that Bella had been tranquil when she died in bed. The family was welcome to contact her if they wanted to hear it from her directly.
Trying to race through all the paperwork and formalities before morning traffic started in earnest would be futile. Ruth noticed Charmaine passing by. She was on the morning shift; she might help with washing the body.
“I suppose so,” Charmaine said. “She was on my corridor. Bella was such a sweetie.”
“Perfect. I’ll meet you in her room in five,” Ruth said, returning to her notes.
It’s too early for dead people.
Ruth, who was not feeling at all tolerant, called after her, “Then go work for a dermatologist.”
“What?” Charmaine said. I’m going to lose half an hour on this, and then God knows how much longer holding a box of tissues for the family whenever they show up—
Ruth stared at Charmaine’s face. She was smiling. Not speaking.
And I’ll probably still be given a full load of patients for the shift.
It was her voice, clear and hollow, like it was coming from under a sink.
Ruth said, “I’m sorry. I’m all over the place this morning. I’ll see you there in five. Is that all right?”
“I said it’s no drama.”
Ruth watched her walk away. She could hear, she realized, other competing voices rushing together as all the nurses passed by, starting their shift.
Above it, she heard Charmaine: How about I’ll be there in ten and she can get a head start on the wash?
Ruth had evidently endured some sort of accident in her brain or spiritual awakening, she wasn’t certain. Home and bed. That was all she had to achieve this morning. Home and bed.
The cleaner pushed his broom by the station and glanced at her with a nod. “Morning, Ruth.” Poor thing. Looks like she’s been chewed up, spat out, and given to the dog.
He gave a sympathetic grin and moved farther down the hall.
Over at the corner desk, she heard the nurses and their grumbling array of concerns.
Tubes tied . . . the linen cupboard’s a war zone . . . Not awake at all . . . I hate working with that useless cow . . . suctioning trachy snot all day . . .
shower the old geezer . . . smooth satin pants, party pink . . . I could sleep for another six hours . . .
They didn’t know sleepy.
As Ruth moved closer, the steady trickle of their thoughts grew into a rush that she didn’t want to hear. Charmaine, leaning across the counter, waved her away. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right there.” If she had a regular man, she wouldn’t be in such high gear all the time.
Ruth waved back at her. “Charmaine, forget it. I’ve got Bella.” She swung by the supply room; picked up a metal basin, washcloths, and two large plastic bags; and turned back toward Bella’s room. This was a job she could do without the extra commentary.
When they were young, Natalie could sometimes read Ruth’s mind. It was an older sister’s prerogative, she’d said. The first time it happened, they were coming back from the library and Ruth had been daydreaming. Natalie held out her arm to keep her from walking into traffic. What Ruth had been thinking about was leaving home. The grander plan was to complete her hospital training and go overseas—anywhere she could use her skills. Morocco looked exotic enough to fit her fantasy. Once she learned the language, she would find her way into an expatriate existence in an apartment in a busy corner of some ancient city. Near a market. From there, she would travel with her notepad and not much more, finding home wherever she went. Occasionally, there would be a lover who would bring her hashish and poetry. In exchange, she would make him tea and he would be allowed to sip from her worldliness. She was all of fourteen and had shared these thoughts with nobody.
As they crossed, Natalie said, “Not that I could ever stop you, but do you need to go so far away?”
The trick, Natalie said, was a kind of math, achieved through a consideration of Ruth’s expression and everything else going on. No hocus-pocus, she said, just thinking. She collated the facts. It was situational telepathy and it meant Ruth’s private thoughts were often discussed before she even had the chance to act on them. Ruth could never return the favor, no matter how many clues she had. Natalie generously shared her own secrets, though, to keep the relationship balanced. So unlike other kids her age, Ruth had to get by without the romance of her own loneliness. It was comforting and intimidating, especially from an older sibling. Like having a twin who was always one step ahead. Still, it wasn’t the same as picking up every stray thought in a hospital. Ruth had entered another realm.
What the Family Needed Page 9