“That’s it. Let’s go,” he said, pulling cautiously but unrelentingly on her right arm. “No. Don’t say another word. You’re going.”
“But, Tom, I—”
“No. You’re going. Ill tell you what,” he said, as he nudged her into the back seat of the patrol car. “If you behave, I’ll have someone put a bandage on my head, so you won’t have to look at it anymore. How’s that?”
He slammed the car door before she could answer, and walked around to get in on the other side. He wedged her weak arm between them, supporting it with one hand while his other arm slipped protectively across her shoulders.
“Comfortable?” he asked.
“No. Well, yes, this is comfortable, but I’m not comfortable,” she said, feeling cold suddenly. She shivered, and he inched closer to her to keep her warm. She realized that he didn’t understand, that he was misconstruing everything because she wasn’t making her feelings clear to him. Finally, she blurted, “Tom. I can’t go to the hospital.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t, that’s all. I just can’t.” She was so terrified and embarrassed, she could hardly speak.
There was silence for a few seconds. The officer got into the car, checked to make sure all was well in the back seat, and then started talking into the hand microphone of his radio.
Tom bent his head to look into her face. “If it’s money, don’t worry. I can ... ,” he said in a low voice.
“No. I have money. I ... It’s ...” She just couldn’t say it.
“What? Tell me, Sydney.” His voice was soft and reassuring. “You were gung ho for the hospital when you thought I needed attention. Why won’t you get some for yourself?”
“I can’t,” she whispered. “I wasn’t going in with you. I would have waited outside.”
“Why?” When she couldn’t answer, he guessed. “You don’t like hospitals.”
She shook her head and then nodded. “I send flowers. I don’t go inside.”
“Why, Sydney? Why don’t you like hospitals? Have you ever been inside one?”
“No. Not even when my cousin Francine had her baby. I tried. I stood there and the doors opened and closed and opened and closed, but I couldn’t go in.”
“Is it the smell that bothers you?”
“Somebody told me once that they have a distinct odor, that if you were blindfolded, you’d know where you were by the smell. Is it really awful?”
“No. Not awful, just ... sterile, but distinctively hospitallike,” he said, agreeing with what she’d heard but still eager to pinpoint her fears. “Tell me specifically, what it is that bothers you about hospitals?”
“Everything. Everything about hospitals scares me. I don’t even drive past them. Cemeteries either. If there’s one on the way to wherever I’m going, I drive for blocks to avoid it. I can’t stand the sight of them.”
“Cemeteries? You’re afraid of cemeteries too?”
“You think I’m stupid, don’t you?”
“No. I don’t think you’re stupid. You’re trembling. But let’s deal with one thing at a time here. Why do hospitals scare you?”
Sydney hated this part. Thankfully, she hadn’t had to tell many people about it. It was easy enough to cover with one excuse or another, and she managed to keep it her secret most of the time. She wasn’t proud of it. It was embarrassing and shameful at times. But it was also something she couldn’t explain and couldn’t overcome.
“Why do hospitals scare you?” he asked again, gentle but persistent.
“People die in hospitals,” she muttered in the tiniest of voices.
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t hear you.”
She took a deep breath and said it again in a louder voice.
“What?” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“People die in hospitals.”
He moved forward on the seat so quickly that he nudged her shoulder, and she winced in pain. He turned and looked back at her in astonishment and skepticism, braced with one arm on the back of the seat.
“People die in hospitals? Is that what you said?” She nodded, watching his reaction from her heart. “People also get well in hospitals and go on to live their lives.”
“I know. But I’m not afraid of living, I’m afraid of dying. It’s called thanatophobia.”
“What?”
“Thana-toe-phobia.”
“Thanatophobia.” He looked as if they’d just finished having sex and she’d told him she had a social disease.
“It’s ... it’s an unexplainable fear of anything that has to do with death. Blood, hospitals, life-threatening situations ... when I think about dying, I get a little crazy or throw up or sometimes my heart beats so fast, I pass out. I don’t know why, I just do. I mean, I’ve never been traumatized or died and come back to life or anything like that. It’s just the way I am.”
“So. Anything that has to do with death ... upsets you?”
“Well, yes, sort of,” she said, wondering what he was thinking, wondering if she should explain it to him, wondering if it would make a difference, wondering ... Suddenly the choice was out of her hands. She’d already started to speak.
“When my mother used to take me to the psychiatrist, when I was little, he said that my case was mild compared to some he’d seen. I guess that’s because I don’t faint when I see dead birds or flowers. I ... I’ve never seen a dead person, but he said that my reaction would be more to the reminder of my own death than to the dead person’s death, that I’m more afraid of dying than I am of death in general. He said it was good that I could talk about it when I had to, and that I could recognize it for what it is—an irrational fear. But ... but he also said that there wasn’t much that could be done about it. A certain amount of fear was natural and normal. I just have a little too much.”
She sighed and went silent, feeling relief at having her secret out in the open between them, but still too unsure of his reaction to look at him, wary of seeing the disbelief and displeasure in his face.
He groaned and fell back into a sitting position beside her. His head came to rest on the back of the seat; his eyes were closed. One arm came up to cover his face, and he started to chuckle. He should have known that Sydney was too good to be true, that there’d be a monkey wrench in the works somewhere. Love at first sight and happily-ever-after rarely worked as smoothly as they did in the movies. He knew that. But thanatophobia?
“Are you laughing at me?” she asked, feeling tears of humiliation welling in her eyes. It hurt to think that he might not be able to understand, that he might reject her for something she couldn’t control. She’d thought better of him. She’d thought much better of him.
“No. I’d never laugh at you,” he said. “I’m trying not to cry. I don’t know how much more of this night I can take.”
There was weary disappointment in his voice and manner, despite his words of reassurance. His disillusionment hurt too. She’d wanted him to like her.
“I won’t say I’m sorry for something I can’t control,” she said, swallowing the lump in her throat as she wiped a stray tear from her cheek. Perhaps she should have warned him. Maybe part of his frustration was her fault. “But I am sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I didn’t think ...” The tears came unchecked.
“Whoa,” he said, turning to her quickly. “You don’t have one damn thing to apologize for, Sydney. Really. I wish I’d known sooner. I had no idea what you were going through, but you don’t have to feel bad about any of it.”
“You don’t think it’s disgusting, that I have an obsessive fear of dying? You don’t think I’m weird or strange or being a baby about it?” she asked, grasping the lapel of his suit and blubbering against the front of his shirt. “Some people do, you know. And I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I’m analytical and systematic. I’m too ...” She searched her memory for Judy’s word. “... linear to be irrational.”
She felt his chest vibrate and heard the laughter in his voice when he sai
d, “Well, I don’t know that I’d describe you as linear, but I also wouldn’t call you disgusting, weird, strange, or babylike—although I do enjoy holding you as if you were one.”
With a light touch to her chin he tenderly raised her face to his. He took the shirttail from her fingers and dabbed at the tears on her cheeks before he pressed a soft, caring kiss to her lips.
Sydney inspired a protective instinct in him that was gentle, warm, and fierce, and unlike anything he’d ever felt before. It wasn’t chivalry or valor or as macho as the strong protecting the weak. It was more like what an animal would feel protecting its mate or its young. An innate reaction to anything threatening something vital to its own well-being. It was a new feeling for him, and he liked it.
“I think you’re a beautiful, intelligent woman,” he murmured against her lips, “with glass in your hair and a broken shoulder. I also think that you and I need to talk more about this later.” He glanced through the front window as they approached the hospital’s emergency room. “But right now, we need to figure out what we’re going to do about getting you fixed up. What about a clinic?”
“In my head, they’re the same as a hospital.”
“Then we don’t have a choice. You’re going to have to trust me,” he said, as the car stopped outside a large set of automatic doors.
“Oh, Tom. I don’t know,” she said, her trepidation clear. Tom got out of the car and bent to help her out. She couldn’t move. Her gaze was glued to the big glass doors.
“Sydney, honey, trust me. I’ll be with you the whole time, and I promise I won’t let anything bad happen to you. Ill talk you through everything.” He studied her fearful expression and waited for his words to settle into her mind. “Trust me to take care of you, can you do that? Can you trust me?”
She looked at him then, appearing vague and disoriented, as if trust were a new concept for her. The portico light delineated his features. They were strong and confident. Tall and sturdy, built to withstand the forces of the world around him, he appeared to be a man she could rely on. She knew he was a man she could depend on to cope and function when she could not. But was he a man she could trust with her heart, her dignity, and her pride?
“You do trust me, don’t you?” he asked, a troubled note in his inflection when she took too long in answering.
“Yes.” She didn’t sound as sure as she felt. She did trust him, but she didn’t know if he had a real idea of what he was getting himself into. “But what if I ... do something embarrassing? What if my nose starts to bleed or I pass out or I start to scream? What if I punch someone or start tearing my hair out and—”
“You’re not going to do any of those things. I promise. Come on, get out.” He took her right hand, and when she was safely out of the vehicle, he thanked the police officer and then turned her toward the hospital entrance.
“Hold on to my hand as tightly as you want to,” he said, walking slowly toward the doors. “Don’t hear anything but my voice. Don’t think about anything except what I’m telling you.” The doors opened like a sideways set of jaws. “Does your arm hurt?”
“My arm?” There were people on the other side of the door. Not nurses or doctors, she judged, since they were wearing street clothes and seated in small groups, impatiently waiting. “What’s the matter with these people?” she whispered, turning her back on them to face the exit.
Tom caught her and bent his knees to look into her face.
“These people are just like you. They’re hurt or sick and they’re here to get help. They’re waiting to see a doctor. It’s the same as going to the doctor’s office. You sit and wait your turn. You’ve done that before, haven’t you?”
She lowered her eyes and hung her head. “A long time ago,” she murmured, recalling the past with terror and mortification. “But my mother used to call ahead to warn them. We didn’t have to wait and I ... I didn’t behave very well.”
“How long ago was that?”
She shrugged.
“Sweetheart, you need help.” She looked up quickly to see if he was being condescending, but saw only his concern. “You need checkups,” he said. “What do you do when you’re sick?”
Again she shrugged and looked away. She knew most people saw a doctor on a regular basis and for every little sniffle they contracted. It was the American way. She felt like a traitor. “I wait for it to go away.”
He was ready to argue the point, but he didn’t. “Okay. We can talk about this later too,” he said. “The first thing we do is go over to that desk there and tell them we want to see a doctor. Do you have insurance?”
“Yes.”
“They must love you. Come on.” He led her over to an enclosed reception area, more dragging than leading actually, and while she stood silently by, he did all the talking.
“Do you have an insurance card?” he asked. “Or has it turned to dust from neglect?”
“Is this the smell you were talking about? Does it always smell like this?”
He nodded. “Pretty much. You all right?”
No. She wasn’t all right. He sounded as if he were talking from the inside of a fishbowl. Her heart was racing, and she felt a little light-headed. And the people who moved in slow motion around her were staring rudely at her—as if she were a freak in a sideshow. None of them appeared about to die, but perhaps this was why they were staring at her. Maybe they could see that she was dying. Maybe they all knew. Maybe they could feel it too.
She looked at Tom and nodded. “I’m fine,” she said bravely, refusing to make a scene. Tom was going to have enough to deal with when she slipped silently into oblivion—or to whatever existed or didn’t exist beyond life. In her mind she heard him explaining her death.
“She was kicking and screaming and clawing at her face one minute and dead the next I’ve never seen anything like it. Sydney was one weird chick, if you ask me.”
“Sure? You’re pale. Do you want to sit down?”
“Are you going to sit down?” she asked, gripping his hand as she would a lifeline.
“In a second,” he said. He took up the purse that dangled from her shoulder, pulled out the brown leather wallet, and picked through it with one hand until he found her insurance card, which he gave to the receptionist. “We’re going to have a bunch of questions to answer here. Are you up to it?”
“Sure.”
He took a clipboard with a few sheets of paper attached from the receptionist and led Sydney by the hand to sit in a secluded corner of the room.
Six
“THIS IS GOING TO be great,” Tom said, smiling his enthusiasm as he settled into the chair beside her in the waiting room.
The people around them were solemnly quiet, adding fuel to Sydney’s disquiet. If a hospital was a place of healing and miracles, why wasn’t anyone smiling? she wondered. Except Tom, of course. But even his smile was marred by the anxious concern in his eyes.
“Now I’ll know you inside out,” he said. “I should have started bringing my dates here years ago.” He paused. “Not funny, huh? Well, you’ll get a charge out of these questions—one way or another. Is Sydney Wiesman your full name?”
“Isadora.”
“Sydney Isadora Wiesman is your full name?” She nodded, hardly noticing the humor in his voice as she eyed the people seated in front of them, waiting for one or more of them to fall over dead. “No doubt about it now,” she heard him saying. “We have to go out again. I want you to tell me all about your mother.”
“Why?”
He looked down at the clipboard and the name he’d written on it and shook his head. “Forget it. How old are you? And don’t lie.”
The board on his lap, he was writing with one hand—while the fingers of the other one turned white under the pressure of her grip. He continued to ask numerous questions, some of which were quite embarrassing, considering she hadn’t known him eight hours.
Tom didn’t act as if he had the slightest compunction in asking personal question
s such as whether or not she had regular bowel movements or when her last menses had occurred and what she used for birth control. As a matter of fact, he appeared to be having a rather good time of it—or so it seemed from the comments he made.
And if the truth were known, there were several occasions she wanted to laugh with him but couldn’t. It was like listening to a comedian while on her way to the gallows. No matter how funny or clever the jokes, she couldn’t laugh.
His efforts weren’t in vain, however. He was trying so very hard to keep her distracted and her spirits up, and for that alone she was grateful and etched his name in her heart for all time.
They were halfway through a long, gruesome list of gastric anomalies—many of which she was sure she was developing as they spoke—when the big doors opened wide again to admit a young woman with a baby in her arms.
Sydney didn’t see each of them individually, she saw one complete picture—distraught mother holding a quiet, listless child. She was struck by the stillness of the infant.
“Oh, no,” she said with a gasp, thinking the worst. “Not a baby.”
She loved children. They were always so active and busy. They had such zest for life, they were the last ones she’d ever associated with death. Somehow a child’s death was worse than the thought of her own demise.
“What?” Tom asked, looking up to see the horror in her face and swiftly following her stare to the young mother and child. He was quick to catch on. “Hang on now, Sydney. We don’t have all the facts yet. Babies get sick, too, but it doesn’t mean they die. It’s late at night, and their pediatrician’s office is closed. It could be something as simple as a bad cough.”
“Why doesn’t it move?”
“It is moving. Look. It’s sucking its thumb and looking around. It’s late,” he repeated. “It’s probably sleepy.”
Upon closer examination she found his words to be true. The baby wasn’t dead yet, but its skin was unusually red and it had a glazed expression in its eyes. She continued to watch the child closely and answered the rest of Tom’s questionnaire in monosyllables.
Asking for Trouble Page 6