Sammie & Budgie

by Scott Semegran

  She continued to type. I continued to drool.

  "I'm sorry for the..."

  She finally turned to face me, a serene smile on her face, unfazed by my inappropriate sexual response to the drugs.

  "The erection?" she said, matter-of-factly. She didn't seem to care one bit.

  "Yes, ma'am. That."

  "It's OK," she said, returning to the computer, her professional data entry continuing. "I've seen it all here at the hospital. I've seen much worse. I've seen things you wouldn't believe. An involuntary, bodily function is the least of my worries."

  I looked in the direction of my boner and it was gone, miraculously, although the sensation of it remained, like a phantom limb. It was odd, feeling the blood pumping through my crotch to an invisible erection. Was I imagining it before? Did she think I was crazy? I watched her type, her shoulders shimmying back and forth, like a keyboard player in a funk band. She seemed to be enjoying herself and I watched her as if I was an audience member of said funk band, enjoying the band while sipping a cold beer. She had a kind face--round and tan, crow's feet protruding from her eyes above blushed cheeks--and her auburn hair styled in a fashion that some men do, cut close above the ears, parted to the side, and set in its feathery place with hair gel. She wore earrings with large, glimmering crimson-colored stones, either rubies or garnets or something like that, maybe a gift from her husband although she wasn't wearing a wedding ring. And on one cheek, four very dark freckles configured in a trapezoidal shape that reminded me of a constellation.

  "What is your name?" I said, shifting my body so I was laying on my side, the arm with the tubes inserted into it comfortably placed on the side of my body facing up. "If you don't mind me asking?"

  She continued to type. "My name is Juanita."

  "Juanita," I said, absorbing all the syllables to that Spanish name then regurgitating the name slowly, my tongue thick and heavy and swollen. "Wah-nee-tah."

  She giggled. I was still drooling like a fool.

  "What's so funny?" I said, a tingling sensation washing over my body, starting at my scalp then rippling through all the hairs on my body all the way down to my toes.

  "You. People. People on drugs. It never gets old."

  "What never gets old?" I said, curious.

  "The silliness from the morphine. It never gets old."

  "Morphine?" I said, surprised. "I'm on more-feen?"

  "What do you think is being pumped into your arm?"

  I tried to sit up but the weight of my body was too much to lift. I rolled onto my back and peered up at the ceiling, my torso sinking heavily into the scratchy linen of the hospital bed. Most of the ceiling tiles were bright white except for one tile with a corner of it stained the color of bog water--brown and festering with microbes that would give you diarrhea. They always say that the one place you don't want to be if you don't want to get sick is in a hospital. Do they say that because hospitals are filled with sick people? Or is it because hospitals are built on the backs of the sick and the financial strain it puts on suffering families? Or is it because hospitals are not as sanitary as they claim to be? I didn't know.

  "Are you married?" I said, still examining the ceiling tiles. The clickity-clack of the keyboard halted abruptly.

  "I'm a widow," she said. "My husband passed away last year."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. How did he die?"

  "Cancer."

  "Cancer. It's always can-cer. Yessir," I said, my lips smacking.

  "Mmm hmm," she said, the keyboard clickity-clacking some more.

  "Do you have children?" I said. I rubbed my stomach because it felt good rubbing my stomach. It felt good rubbing myself all over.

  She abruptly stopped again, rolled on the stool closer to me, then extended my arm, the one without all the tubes stuck in it. She wrapped my bicep with a blood pressure gauge, cinching it tightly with velcro. The pressure of it was almost too much to take but it didn't bother me at all, either. Narcotic drugs are a miraculous thing. Right?

  "I have two grown children, a son and a daughter."

  "I have two kids, too! A son and a daughter! I love them so much. They are sooo awesome. I wish I knew where they were. Do you know where they are?"

  "No, I don't. But I can look into it, if you'd like. Do you want me to ask around?"

  "Whenever you have time," I said. "You seem very busy."

  She giggled some more. She thought that was pretty goddamn funny, I could tell. I can be pretty goddamn funny when I want to be. Sometimes. The Big Dipper constellation of freckles on her cheek slowly spun to life and as I observed its rotation, I marveled at it, spinning slowly. One of the freckles was darker and fuzzier than the others.

  "I'm always busy," she said, pumping the blood pressure gauge to life. She didn't seem to mind that I was staring at her and the unusual, astronomical event that was on display on her face.

  "I'm curious," I said, enjoying the sensation of her hands touching the skin on my arm. "Before your husband died, did you enjoy being married?"

  She stopped pumping the gauge and it hissed as the air retreated from the arm strap. She sighed then said, "That's a very personal question."

  "I know," I said, not ashamed.

  "Aren't you more concerned about your own state of being at the moment?" she said, the velcro screaming as she tore it apart, removing the blood pressure gauge from my limp arm. "117 over 82."

  "Is that good?!"

  "It's fine," she said, hanging the blood pressure gauge on a hook on the wall next to some other medical contraptions. "The doctor will be in soon to talk to you."

  "But--"

  "Yes?" she said, opening the jungle-animal curtain then waiting for my response. A smirk appeared on her round face.

  "Was your husband good to you?"

  The smirk transformed into contentment, then she said, "He was amazing. The best husband I could have ever wished for. The doctor will be with you shortly."

  She disappeared behind the jungle-animal curtain, pulling it closed. The curtain swayed back and forth momentarily, then as it stopped, the jungle animals sprung to life in a hallucinatory dance of fornication, copulation, and jubilation. There were monkeys humping lions, bees kissing ants, elephants molesting zebras with their predatory trunks, and snakes penetrating orangutans in their rear ends. It was a goddamn jungle orgy! Now, don't start judging me like most people like to do, getting on their goddamn high-horse and pontificating about what is right and what is wrong about the world and its love affair with narcotics and such. People love to get on their goddamn high-horse. It makes them feel superior to the rest of us and people love to feel superior to everyone else. It's true. I got a kick out of watching the intra-species love fest on the curtain. It brought me great pleasure, so much so that I didn't notice the doctor slip into the room. He was a sneaky bastard, that doctor. He snuck in so stealthily that when I finally noticed him, I almost jumped out of my bed. He scared the shit out of me.

  "Good afternoon," he said, all calm and professional and courteous. I yelped when he said that, like a little girl, like a scared little child. How embarrassing. "I'm Dr. Yang and I'm here to discuss what happened to you and your family. Are you aware of what happened?"

  I thought about his question like the ancient philosophers pondered the intricacies of life, except I had nothing in there--inside my head. My mind was like an abandoned well and his question was like a pebble being dropped into it, yet never landing at the bottom. His question was swallowed by the abyss of my intoxicated mind.

  "Aware of what?" I said, shifting uncomfortably in the bed.

  Dr. Yang was a good-sized man, maybe six feet in height with 230 pounds or so of chubbiness hanging on his big-boned frame. His light, clear skin and thin, pink lips contrasted nicely with a dark brown, tiny mole near one of his eyebrows, three wiry hairs protruding from it like crabgrass invading the well-manicured putting green of a pristine golf course. He moved with the deliberateness of a sloth--slow, meticulous, and dete
rmined. What was with all the moles on the hospital staff, huh? It was a question that would prod at my curiosity for the rest of the day.

  "Aware of what happened to you today?" he said.

  "Today? What happened today?"

  "Mr. B--?"

  "Are you aware that there is a hairy mole on your--"

  "Sir, I know that the morphine drip is easing your discomfort effectively. I can tell by the way you are communicating with me, which is fine. It's doing what it's designed to do. But I need to ask you to try to at least focus on what I am telling you. Can you at least try to do that?"

  I will say this about Dr. Yang. He was a goddamn professional. It's true. No matter how stupid or dopey or foolish I was, being under the influence of morphine and all, he never lost his composure. He just sat there--stern and serious and stoic--like a professional doctor should, unfazed by all the stupid things I let slip out of my stupid mouth. That's the way all doctors and nurses should be, particularly in times of trauma. Serious as hell.

  "I'll try," I said, holding back laughter the best I could. I couldn't help it. It was all just so goddamn funny.

  "Excellent. Now, the car accident your family experienced was serious and I'm afraid to say that some of the family members are in grave condition, as well as... there was one fatality."

  "Fuh-tal-eh-tee? Is that what you said?"

  "Yes," he said, then sat there silently, his eyes turning to his lap where his hands laid, fingers crossed. "I'm sorry to inform you that a little boy did not make it."

  "Little boy?" I said, the words dribbling from my lips with the consistency of mud. Muddy words and drooling lips. "Fay-tull?"

  The pleasant sensation that had intimately swathed my body was replaced by a cold chill that raised goose pimples and stiffened my body hair into miniature icicles. Why was there a blackhole in my memory? How could I not remember such a severe car crash? Was I going insane? Did I kill my son?

  "Yes, sir. But fortunately, the other passengers survived but some have worse injuries than others. We're looking at--"

  "Is my son dead?" I said, finding the strength to sit up and place my hand on the kind Dr. Yang. "My Sammie?"

  "I'm afraid so." Like a water pipe bursting, the tears from my eyes and boogers from my nose ran in a gush of unexpected ferocity but the good doctor seemed to be prepared for this. He patted my back gently, pulling some Kleenex from a coat pocket. He really was a great doctor, I tell you, prepared and whatnot. "I really hate delivering this type of news, Mr. Burnstein. It's a part of my job that I never get used to."

  I cried and cried and cried for my little boy, the best son in the entire world, the cutest kid, the most loving boy. I just couldn't believe it yet it must have been true. I mean, there was the good Dr. Yang, embracing a stranger, telling him the unfortunate news about the death of their child. Good ol' Sammie Boy's short life flashed in my mind: the day he was born, the day of his first word, the day he first walked, many more milestones, the first day of school, the first time riding a bike. Everything. Then I thought of his mother and, even though I carried so much hate in my heart toward her, I saw her sadness, her broken heart, her spirit crushed, and it obliterated me. Then I wondered, 'How would I explain this to little Jessie?' What was I going to say to her? How was I going to mend her little broken heart? I cried and cried and cried, embracing Dr. Yang with my cold arms. I held him tight and firm. Then, after weeping some more, I thought, 'Burnstein? Who the fuck is Burnstein?'

  "Did you say Burnstein?" I said, sniffling, wiping my face on his white coat.

  "Why, yes I--" Dr. Yang pulled away from me, then pulled a folded sheet of paper from his doctor coat. He read the paper, examining the dense lines of data on it, then looked at me, bewilderment on his face, then a look of condolence.

  "You are Mr. Burnstein, correct?"

  "Burchwood," I said, sitting up in bed. "Simon Burchwood. My name is Burchwood."

  "F-f-fuck," he said quietly, stuttering under his breath but completely audible to me. If there was ever an appropriate time in a professional setting to say that word--the F word--then this was it. He quickly stood up and, realizing his extreme error, immediately left the room, the curtain flailing behind him as he retreated. I wondered what he was doing or where he was going. Was he running around like a waiter in a panic who had just delivered the wrong order of food to a large table of hungry customers? Was he looking for Mr. Burnstein or was he looking for my family? Was good ol' Sammie Boy all right? Was my family even in a car accident? I didn't know the answers to any of these questions. But one thing I did know was that the high from the morphine was completely gone. I sat in my emergency room, alone, only the blips and bleeps of the electronic medical equipment to keep my company. Even the dopey jungle animals on the curtain had stopped humping each other, the somber weight of the air killing all hallucinatory magic they were experiencing. Time stood still and I wasn't sure how long it was that I sat there, alone, not knowing the whereabouts of Nat and my kids. But before I knew it, good ol' Sammie Boy and little Jessie and Nat were all in the tiny emergency room--screaming, cheering, and crying.

  "Daddy!" my two little kids exclaimed, jumping up in the bed with me, their little arms wrapped around my neck and shoulders, Nat standing close by teary and blush, with a band-aid on her forehead and a scrape on one of her freckly cheeks. I embraced my children, filled with so many different emotions. It was like I was in a dream.

  "I'm glad everybody is OK!" I said, choked up. I extended a hand to Nat and she held it, then I pulled her to the bed. The four of us embraced each other, weeping heavily. "Are you OK?" I said to Nat. I could feel her nodding--her body quivering from crying--and I was content with her non-verbal response. There really wasn't much else to say in that moment. Still feeling the slight effects of the morphine (though it wasn't an enjoyable feeling anymore), I was content in that moment of just being alive, and being with my family.

  I never felt more alive in my entire life than during those few minutes, hugging my family, all of us crying, all of us holding onto dear life, the breath in my lungs vibrant and effervescent and full.

  Your life never seems as precious as in the moments of a realization that it could have been over--forever.

  It's true.

  ***

  Dr. Yang was pretty goddamn embarrassed, so much so that he said he would make things right. And boy, did he make things right. After telling all of us that he recommended that we stay one night in the hospital so he could observe us and our injuries, he set us up in a room that might as well have been a goddamn hotel suite. It was large and comfortably furnished, what, with couches and pull-out beds and an armoire with a TV and a round dining table and tastefully chosen framed watercolor paintings and shit like that. You see, all the regular hospital rooms were full but many of the maternity rooms were vacant for whatever reason and Dr. Yang was determined to make up for his monumental, administrative blunder--a real fuck up, if you ask me--and treat us with the dignity and respect we deserved. Well, we didn't actually deserve that more than any other patients in the intensive care unit but I liked at least thinking that we did. Sometimes, I'm telling you, it's nice to be pampered.

  While we were moving into our new hospital room for the night, I soon discovered that of the four of us, Nat and Jessie were practically unharmed. As I said earlier, Nat had a band-aid on her forehead and a scrape on her cheek but the rest of her was in good shape. Same for little Jessie--practically normal. That tough little girl had a black eye and a bruised ego. That was about it. Both girls were in good shape considering the severity of the car accident, according to Dr. Yang. The worst damage was sustained by yours truly and good ol' Sammie Boy. It seemed from what the emergency responders said was that at the point of impact--when the other car slammed into the back of my Volvo S70--Sammie launched from the backseat, our heads crashing together while he was mid-air, and he landed head-first into my lap. My trusty Volvo went off the road and down an embankment, stopping in a ditch
. When the EMTs ripped open my car door, they found the two of us in the driver seat clinging together like the two fish in the astrological symbol for Pisces, two fish swimming the complimentary configuration of yin yang. In fact, we knocked our heads together so hard that the emergency room staff reviewed our injuries through CT scans, results to be given to us later that night by Dr. Yang himself. Sammie's little head was wrapped in gauze and bandages, his hair spilling out the top like the contents of an over-stuffed taco. My fat head was wrapped in bandages, too. We were a pair of Twinkies, to say the least; two concussed heads with brains of mush. It was a miracle that we were alive at all. A goddamn miracle. It's true.

  We settled into the maternity room with the belongings we had, which was practically nothing, and made ourselves at home the best we could. There was one bed, which I was lying in, and a couple of roll-away beds wheeled in by hospital staff, which Sammie and Nat occupied. Little Jessie insisted she slept on the hide-away bed in the couch for some reason, which I was certain was as hard and lumpy as a rock like most hideaway beds. She stacked the cushions of the couch in a neat pile on the cold, tile floor, pulling the folded mattress from the guts of the couch all by herself. As typical of most Type A personalities, Jessie insisted she prep her bed all by herself, even though it was obvious she was struggling with getting that folded mattress out of the bowels of the couch without assistance from an adult. When Nat attempted to assist her, she said, "I'll do it myself!" with a bark and a hiss that was dreadful, if not downright frightening. Nat left her to do it all by herself. Wise move on Nat's part. She's a pretty smart cookie.