...something about blood on the rocks...
...he yanked Laura hard, trying to get them out of the mob, but he couldn't budge much, he was to dizzy, there were too many eyes glaring expectantly at him, too many arms slamming fists into his back...
...and now Bon Scott was wailing about blood on the streets...
...he looked across the sea of heads, the black, wiggling sea of bodies, and saw two people who might have been Jim and Theresa shoving their way through, trying to get to them, trying to get the hell out of madness before it got really bad, this Craziness, but Donald bit down on his lip and felt something moist and hot spread over his chin because he knew that the guard was going to fire the grenade and once that happened none of them had a chance in hell...
...next it was blood on the sheets...
...everyone in the crowd was turning toward him, staring at him like he was expected to do something, him and him alone, to stop what was about to happen, thousands of eyes, thousands of questions thrown silently through the air to slam against his head...he couldn't see any way out of the bodies...no way out...
...every last drop...
...he could still hear the clattering chattering of the insects as Jim and Theresa reached them, but he didn't look at them...there was a loud blam! as the guard fired off the first tear gas grenade that soared through the air and landed in the middle of the crowd, vomiting out thick, burning smoke...
...a voice screamed that if you want blood...
...every eye was on him for as much as he could see...
... you got it ...
...and for a moment, in the thickness of the smoke, everything seemed to freeze and the crowd parted before him, clearing a path between him and the tiny figure, so small, so fragile, so frightened, but as he moved toward it with Jim, Theresa, and Laura in tow, the crowd shifted in... sounds of more grenades being launched and popping off... the eyes drilling into him...he looked at the small, terrified figure on the ground, a figure that even now was swarming with insects vile and clacking, then he turned to the three people behind him…heard his own screams of two years before echoing back to him, rocking his sister's body back and forth...
...Laura tried to speak, but her clacking mandibles produced no sound that he could recognize...Jim and Theresa were worming their feelers toward him...he tried to pull back but the sight of Laura’s face froze him...skittering, clacking, scrabbling forward...the stares from the crowd were making him sick, unable to breath...his heart triphammering in his chest...he reached back for Laura's feelers as he heard the doors swing open...
...and ripped her grip from his body.
“You can have them," he whispered to the gazes, knowing it would satisfy them.
The crowd parted before him and he ran to grab the tiny figure—
—the screams from behind were lost under the sound of blood pulsing through his ears and temples—
—the violence exploded all around him as he fell over the delicate body before him, closing his eyes and wrapping his arms around it. For a few minutes it seemed that everything dissolved away; he was aware, as if in a dream, of shouting, pushing, crunching sounds, movement, but finally he took a deep breath, opened his eyes, stood up, and pulled the body up with him.
Jennifer Ann leapt into his arms and threw a hug around his neck, covering his cheek in kisses and tears of her tiny fear, which must have seemed so monstrous to her.
I love you,”' he whispered to her, feeling his heartbeat slow to a normal rate, feeling the throbbing in his head ebb away. He promised himself that he'd never let her out of his sight again.
He looked around until he spotted a way through the lifting gas.
He took a few steps, then bumped into something on the ground.
He looked down, holding Jennifer Ann close, so close he could feel her heart beating, could feel her breath coursing down his neck.
He smiled.
Laura, Jim, and Theresa were kneeling before the pulpy mass, their feelers twisting, their mandibles clamped together as they cried. Donald could see the smashed remains of the insect, so large, so crushed, as he stepped around them, Jennifer Ann firmly in his arms, and made his way out of the smoke, ignoring the bloody footprints he left behind.
Duty
“There are some mistakes too monstrous for remorse.”
—Edwin Arlington Robinson
Mom woke up just as the priest was giving her Last Rites.
(Is this part of the penance? you asked of the Guests. Isn’t it all? was their reply. Smug fucks.)
For six days she’d lain unconscious in the ICU at Cedar Hill Memorial Hospital, kept alive by the ventilator which sat by her bed clicking, puffing, humming, buzzing, measuring her blood, inspiratory, and baseline pressure, waveform readouts showing the fluxes of tracheal and esophageal pressure, proximal pressure at 60 to + 140 cmH2O, 1 cmH2O/25 mV, output flow at 300 to 200 LPM, 1 LPM/ 10 mV, the whole impressive shebang running smoothly at maximum system pressure of 175 cmH2O, the ribbed tube rammed securely down her throat into her lungs, ensuring that she continued to breathe at the acceptable rates of 250 milliseconds minimum expiratory time, 5 seconds maximum inspiratory time. Details. Specifics. Minutia. Like the other tube, the one running out of her nose into the clear container hanging on the other side of the ventilator; this tube is emptying her lungs of the blood filling them, but you’ve noticed, haven’t you, that there’s much more than blood flowing through the tube; there are flecks of things, black flecks, some tiny, others so big you’re surprised they don’t clog the flow, and when these flecks are released into the container they swirl around with an almost deliberate precision, dancers executing masterful choreography, and you remember a phrase spoken by one of the EMTs: circling the drain. Yes, that was it: when they’re about to lose a victim, the EMTs say that they’re circling the drain. That’s what the black flecks are portraying in your mother’s blood, and for a moment you wonder who would compose the music to this ballet; more likely Mahler than Copland, you’re willing to bet. Drain-Circle of the Black Flecks. Like the title of a bad 50's horror movie, the kind you used to watch with Dad on Friday nights when you were a child and there was no sibling to compete for his attention. All of this comes to you as you stand there studying the details, the specifics, the minutia. Things to look at and memorize because you can no longer look at the pale, pinched, collapsed ruins of the face and body lying motionless on the bed. A glowing number changes, a monitor beeps softly to register the new data, the pump presses down, expanding the lungs, raising the chest, and all is right in god’s techno-savvy world. Except.
(Except, say the Guests; ah, there’s the rub, as Willy S. once wrote, right, pal? ‘Except.’ What a word that is, so much disaster and heartache and ruination and disappointment and pain and all of it always follows one little two-syllable word. Very dramatic, don’t you think? Yes, we thought you’d agree, so what say we get back to things and see what follows that word of all words that you seem incapable of getting past right now so, as usual, we have to do it for you. Be a Good Boy and say it with us, now.)
Except that she never should have been here in the first place. Her DNR order had ceased to be in effect at the hospital when she was transferred to the nursing home, but some stupid nurse over there panicked and called an ambulance when Mom went into respiratory arrest, so she was brought back here and immediately placed on life-support; the last thing she’d wanted was to be hooked up to some goddamn machine at the end of her life—she’d told you and your sister that often enough when her emphysema had entered the advanced stage, this a full year before the double pneumonia now snarling inside her—and the two of you had promised you wouldn’t let that happen. But it has happened. You wonder if she blames you. But doesn’t she realize it isn’t your fault? Someone should have called you, should have made sure that the DNR order was attached to her chart at the nursing home, should have been paying attention to the fucking records when her name was entered into the computer and h
er information came up in the ER, but all of this is for lawyers to deal with later. Right now a duty needs to be performed. You and your sister have already tracked down Mom’s doctor and told him what you want; you have shown him the living will and he has nodded his head solemnly, he has picked up the phone and called the ICU; you and your sister have shown the living will to the nurse in charge, have called various friends and family to tell them what you are about to do, and have contacted Father Bill at St. Francis. The two of you have agreed to wait until everyone is present before giving the order. That’s everything so far, right? Well, no, but that’s most of it. Even now as you stand here witnessing these events, you’re already replaying their beginning in your mind, as if by doing so and focusing on the details, the specifics, the minutia, you might find a way to alter the outcome which hasn’t even been determined yet. To wit: Father Bill was the first to arrive, all soft words and sympathy—“This must be terrible for the two of you, so soon after your father’s and grandmother’s deaths.”—as he donned the garments and uncorked the vial of holy water and found his place in his book of blessings. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit: ‘O God, great and omnipotent judge of the living and the dead, we are to appear before you after this short life to render an account of our works. Give us the grace to prepare for our last hour by—’”
And that’s when Mom woke up.
She blinked a few times, then looked up, saw Lisbeth, and smiled as best she could with that tube in her mouth and throat.
Father Bill continued: “’—a devout and holy life, and protect us against a sudden and unprovided death.’”
(Bummer, say the Guests. Hadn’t planned on this turn of events, had you, pal?)
Mom’s eyes grew wide and she began to shake; at first you thought she was having some kind of seizure, but she tore her hand from Lisbeth’s and began to shake it in the air: No. Stop this. Stop it now.
“‘Let us remember our frailty and mortality,’” continued Father Bill, “‘that we may always live in the ways of your commandments. Teach us to watch and pray, that when your summons comes for our departure—’”
Mom started shaking her head and making wet, querulous, awful sounds as her hand shook more violently, the index finger trying to uncurl from its arthritic brethren to point at someone or something; her head jerked to the side, then back again, her eyes staring into those of your sister.
(The Guests again: She’ll cave. She will. Sis always does wherever Mom’s concerned. Next stop, Cave City. And you know it.)
“‘—from this world, we may go forth to meet you, experience a merciful judgment, and rejoice in everlasting happiness. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.’”
Father Bill then placed his hand on Mom’s forehead—or tried to, rather. She was having none of it. “It’s all right, Mary,” he whispered. “It’s all right, Frank and your mother are waiting for you, there’s no need to be scared. God’s love will ease your fear and carry you home.”
He whispered something to her that you couldn’t understand, then with a nod to you and your sister, made his way out.
You didn’t want to turn around and look back into the room because you knew what you’d see, but eventually Father Bill disappeared from view and you had no choice.
There. All up to date now, yes? Yes. The outcome was determined even as you were trying to alter it by your observation at the time. And you didn’t notice until it was too late. What’s wrong with this picture? Too many black flecks, dancing.
Okay, so what now?
Duty.
You turn back into the room and there’s Lisbeth, looking at you with a surprised smile and a “Maybe-Everything-Will-Be-Okay” gleam in her eyes. She’s holding Mom’s hand and trying to look happy while all the while silently asking: Should I be happy or not? She’s back with us, we didn’t think that would happen but here she is. Maybe this is a sign, her coming awake when she did. Maybe. Maybe?
(Cave City—this stop, Cave City.)
You shake your head. The gleam fades from her eyes for a moment, appears again as if she’s thought of an argument against this, then leaves completely. She knows what you shaking your head means.
And so does Mom.
She’s looking right at you, and you know what this look means. Oh, the lids are droopier than they’ve ever been, and the eyes are both dull and bloodshot, but the look is a classic: How can you do something like this?
How often in your forty-one years have you seen that look from her? Or, for that matter, from everyone else in your life? Yes, Mom, look at me. I’m no longer your son—I’m what became of him. Forty-one, divorced, living alone (well, sort of, but you wouldn’t understand, no one would understand about the Guests), no real friends, and here I am about to kill you—because that’s what you’re really thinking, isn’t it, Mom? “My son is going to kill me.” Because you know if it were just Lisbeth, she couldn’t do it. You could always talk Lisbeth out of anything, but me? I inherited your stubborn streak, and you hate that. Does that also mean you hate me right now? Or maybe you always have, who knows?
“I’m glad to see you,” Lisbeth whispers to Mom, squeezing her hand and kissing her cheek. But Mom is still shaking, still trying to point a finger, still objecting.
“There’s a lot of people who want to see you,” says Lisbeth. “We called everybody. You’re going to be real popular today.”
You pull in a breath and cross over to the bed. “Hi, Mom,” you say, but it doesn’t sound like your voice, does it? When did you start speaking with someone else’s voice? Odd—Lisbeth and Mom seem to recognize it. “I thought you were gonna stay asleep on us.”
She continues to shake her head, and you notice for the first time how wide her eyes are. (‘Deer in the headlights’ is the simile you’re looking for, say the Guests.) For the first time you let yourself acknowledge that she’s scared. She knows what’s going on and she doesn’t want it to happen but one look in your eyes and she knows she’s toast, that maybe she’d have a chance if it was only Lisbeth but with you...oh, yeah: toast. Browned on both sides.
Tears form in her eyes as her mouth works to form words but she can’t speak, not with that tube, so what emerges is a series of squeaks and whistles and deeply wet groans, a vaudeville of language but it’s all she’s got, that and her shaking head and pointing finger and tears.
You reach out and grab her shaking hand, squeezing it gently. “I love you, Mom,” you say, and this time the voice sounds a little more like your own; an echo, yes, distant and thin, but yours nonetheless. “I’m so sorry you’ve been so sick for so long. But the doctor’s told us that you...you can’t breathe on your own anymore. You have to be hooked up like this, it’s the only way you can breathe, you see?”
Her eyelids twitch as a single tear slips out from the corner of her left eye and slides a slow, glistening trail down her temple into her ear. You pull a tissue from your pocket and wipe the tear away before it drips into her ear canal. That’s always irritated you whenever you’ve been on your back and crying so it must be twice as awful for her because she can’t raise that arm, what with all the IV needles decorating it like a seamstress’s pin cushion. So you wipe away the tear just like a Good Boy should do for his Mom.
“Please don’t cry,” you say, hating the hint of desperation that’s suddenly there in the echo of your voice, but Mom’s wrinkling her brow and every last line in her face, the short ones, the long ones, the deep and not-so deep ones, all of them become so much more pronounced, each one looking more painful than the one next to it, or over it, or crisscrossing it: the map of a face, the topography of a life: This is from the night when your spleen burst and we had to sit in the emergency room, your dad and me, wondering whether or not you’d make it out of surgery or if we were going to lose our little boy; this one here, under my right eye, is from all those nights I spent squinting over grocery store coupons when your dad was on strike at the plant, we had to watch every penny so th
e coupons were a big help but, Lord, there were so many of them, and maybe I wouldn’t have this line if I’d admitted to myself that I needed glasses, but even if I had admitted it we couldn’t afford them, not with the strike and all, so I squinted...and there are no rest-stops on this particular map, are there? No, not a one that you can find.
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