A needle runs from a morphine drip to Al's arm. Al breathes with a heavy hiss. His callused hand knots the bed sheet as he stares at the bag feeding his arm, listening to the plop of liquid in the tube. Plop. Plop. The rusty radiator bangs in the far corner. A pipe rattles, something knocks against the metal. Plink. Plink.
Plink. Plink. The reverberations echo in his head. Plink. Plink.
|
The mast of the ship knocks with the same metallic chime as it
tosses on the sea. Wrapped in a scarf, Al looks out from the
clanging mast, across the pine shoreline of Baranoff Island. Small
zigzags, from bulldozers, cut through the growth like scars, leaving
the carcasses of burned trees in their wake. Al grabs the ship's
railing. He barks through the spray to the men hauling in fish lines.
"We're following the Kings all the way out!" Al inhales the salt air. |
Just outside his hospital room, less than thirty feet down the hall, nurses groan as they crowd the desk station. Rita, the veteran, holds a fist full of straws. She looks at the wall clock and rolls her eyes. 1:30.
"Al Foster. You know the drill, girls."
One nurse, the novice, does not gather around Rita's fist. Her name tag reads, "AMANDA." She watches the others draw from a distance. Amanda edges closer. Her hand reaches for a straw.
Rita takes the straw from her. "Don't bother. You're too green. He'll eat you alive." Amanda backs away as Rita opens her own hand. In it lies the shortest straw. "Would you look at that."
"Serves you right," another nurse smirks, walking back to the coffee pot.
Rita glances at door 314. Julio, the good-looking orderly with a hair wrap, wheels by with a cart. He hands Rita a tray of medication with a small plate of cookies. "He'll be grumbling. Better go in there and give Oscar the Grouch his cookies."
"Someone ought to stick him back in his trash can and shut the lid." Rita straitens her uniform and makes her way down the hall.
Behind door 314, Al does not hear any of the debate in the nurse's station. He is too busy lugging up the nets. His hands pull on a wet rope. A gull soars overhead. Suddenly, a bright, awkward light spills over his shoulder. Al turns.
His eyes focus on the florescent glare leaking from the hall, silhouetting a figure with a tray. Al curls back in his bed, refusing to look at Rita. She sets the tray on the table.
"Out," he grumbles.
Rita mechanically prepares the pills and the cup of water. "Shut it, Mr. Foster. I ain't as young as some of the others. You can't rattle me."
Al eyes the cookies as she scans his heart monitor. Rita picks up the pills, leans down, and cups his chin with her hand.
He knocks her hand away. "I can do it myself." The pills scatter to the floor, rolling against the wall.
Predicting this, Rita places a new set of pills on the tray and crosses her arms. "Suit yourself."
"I'll take them when I'm ready."
"I don't have all day. You'll take them now."
Al shoves the pills in his mouth while Rita walks to the nook in the far end of the room, where the window tucks around the corner, out of view from the bed. She slices open a blind. Al squints.
"Why don't you open this window? It's a nice big window."
"Because I want to lie in my tomb before I die."
Rita hunches, shutting the blinds, then heads to the door. "You ain't dead yet."
"Fuck off."
"You should get up, walk around a bit, while you still have the strength. That's all I'm saying." The door closes behind her.
Amanda waits outside door 314, holding her sweater. She fiddles with a sleeve, poking a hole with her thumb. Rita rushes past with a spent face. "I need a smoke."
Amanda studies the closed door. The number four seems slightly crooked against the three and the one.
On the night bus to Encino, Amanda cants her head against the glass while the street lights melt over her skin. A Korean gentleman, mid forties, reads a magazine in the seat across from her. The rest of the bus is empty.
Amanda reaches into her bag. She unscrews the small flask, dented along one side where it fell off the bleachers at the baseball game. She grabs the neck in her hand and slyly brings it to her mouth. The warm glow of the liquid washes down her throat. She closes her eyes to taste it.
The bus lurches over a bump. Liquor splashes against her face, dribbling down the front of her uniform. Her purse and contents fall to the floor.
The Korean gentleman bends down to get a lipstick that rolled to his foot. He collects her wallet and an old snapshot creased down the center. He unfolds it as he picks it up. A little girl sits below a man and woman at a picnic table. He looks at the photo before he hands it back to her. She tries to wipe the whisky off the front of her uniform.
"You're a nurse?"
She nods.
"Fine profession."
Amanda returns her eyes to the window. A bearded man in a torn trench coat pushes a shopping cart with only three wheels up a curb.
The Korean gentleman stares another moment at the creased photograph still lying in Amanda's lap. He squints. "You the little one?"
She keeps her eyes outside. An evening drizzle paints a shine on the white curbs.
"And those are your parents?"
Amanda nods.
"They look very young."
"It was taken a while ago."
"Do they live near here?"
She shakes her head.
"My family do not live near here either. They are back in Korea. It can be very hard."
She screws the flask closed and stuffs it in the bag.
"Are they out of the country?"
"No."
"Spending their days on a golf course in Florida?" he jests. "Wouldn't we love to do that!"
"They died in a car accident five years ago."
"Oh, I am so sorry I didn't," He did not finish his sentence.
The bus pulls to the curb. The Korean gentleman stands. Awkwardly nods to her. In a meek gesture of kindness, he offers her his magazine. "I'm finished with it."
She takes it so that he will get off.
"Al Foster, day shift!" The clock reads "1:31 pm." The girls draw straws from Rita's fist. Amanda reaches out her hand. Rita scowls. Amanda keeps her hand firm. She will not back down. She draws the shortest straw.
Amanda grabs Al Foster's chart off the desk. The nurses look at one another as she parts through them, towards Julio, eating a portion of hospital cake against his cart. Amanda takes a new tray and begins sorting the pills according to the chart. She fetches a plastic cup and a jug of water.
"Is this all I need?"
Julio inspects her tray, swallowing his cake. He sets down a small plate of cookies, then nods.
Rita touches her shoulder. "An old man like that, someone who don't got no one in this world, he'll take out his pain on anyone that comes near."
Amanda carries the tray to the end of the hall.
| Wind sweeps the deck of the Scuddy Shark, flapping up a tarp over a fish cooler filled with ice. Clouds snarl overhead. Al fastens down the tarp. The wind spins so fast it spits the smoke from his cigarette like hard flames. A loud creak sounds behind him. He scans the boat. No loose tarps. No rolling barrels. Another creak, Al spins around. |
The hospital door opens. Amanda stands at the threshold, holding the medicine tray.
"Are they sending me trainees now?"
"No, sir." Amanda steps forward. Her eyes wander the desolate room until they land on the closed window. She takes a breath, then sets the tray beside his bed and checks the monitors.
"Why don't you get the out of here? I can take my pills myse---" His words succumb to a coughing fit. She pours a glass of water and hands it to him, but Al knocks the glass to the floor. Water streams across the linoleum.
Amanda drops down, grabbing napkins to soak the spill. As she rises, her eyes land on the toy figurine standing solitary on the table. There is nothing else. No flowers, no cards. Only the figurine.
Al sucks his breath to control the pain. His stubbled scalp and cheeks lend his face the leathery texture of an elephant's hide. But his eyes hold a black fire that smolders beneath the deep wrinkles that droop over his red tipped lids.
A wind rattles the window. Amanda turns to the sound. "Sunlight might do you some good."
She walks around the nook and thrusts open the blinds.
"Close those!"
"It's a beautiful day, Mr. Foster. You should see it."
"I can't move."
"I could describe it to you."
"Don't bother."
"Let's see, the wind's blowing this plastic bag around the park." She leans her head closer to the glass to peak around the corner. "The ties of the office men are blowing up in their faces as they get off the bus. And this one woman, her skirt's almost over her waist!"
"Cut it out."
"Over there, there's a little boy trying to hold onto a red ball. He's chasing it while the wind pushes the ball about the---"
"---I don't need a goddamn bedtime story. Now take your fancy ass out of here before I call security!"
She obliges, but leaves the blinds open.
"Hey, you forgot-" Al shouts at the back of her head. "Come back here!" Al presses the call buzzer to attract her attention, but Amanda shuts the door. "I don't want sun on the bed. Someone get in here and close these blinds!"
Al sits himself up, pressing the buzzer. He fixes his eyes on the patch of sun that cuts across his bed corner. The sun blazes there, taunting him, staining his blanket.
Outside door 314, Amanda waits. Julio charges past her, opening the door. "Can't you hear that buzzer? What'd'ya do to him?"
When Julio storms in, he sees the blanket on the floor. He picks it up. "You buzzed?"
Al looks at the boy's face. "Close those blinds."
Julio obeys, then comes to his bedside. He picks up the army figurine. "Anything else?"
Al grabs it back. "That's not yours."
"I used to play with these when I was a kid."
"Good for you."
Amanda slips into the supply closet at the far end of the hall. She keeps the lights off, presses herself against the bottles of sanitizer and the rolls of toilet paper. She unzips her purse, unscrews the flask, takes a long quick swig, licks her lips, screws the cap back, stuffs it in her purse, zips the purse again, and steals out.
Next day, same drill. The nurses look at the clock. 1:30. With reticence, Rita goes for the drawer of straws. Moans.
"Calm down, girls."
Amanda grabs all the straws from Rita. "I'll take it. I don't mind." Rita studies her face with cautionary eyes, but lets her go.
Amanda enters room 314 with medicine and cookies on her tray. Al does not look at her. She walks strait to the blinds and grabs the cord.
A groggy voice comes through the darkness. "Don't you dare."
Amanda lets the cord drop. She brings the tray to his bedside and sets it down. "I brought extra cookies. The good kind."
"Yippee."
She holds one out to him. He does not accept it.
"Want to hear what's going on outside your window? It was such a beautiful afternoon yesterday." Amanda returns to the blinds and peeks between two slats. "I don't even have to open it, see? I can just peek out."
Al rolls away from her.
"There's clouds over most of the sun so it's kinda gray out. A couple of birds are fighting over some bread or sandwich or something left on the park bench."
"Hey---"
"---And, look! That little boy is back with his red ball."
"Hey!"
"What?"
"Do you see that door on the other side of the room?"
"Yeah."
"Go over to it. Open it. And walk yourself out."
Amanda shakes her head. "Tough audience."
"Better luck tomorrow."
Rita walks past Amanda as she leans against the door to the supply closet at the hallway, poking her sleeve with her thumb. Rita lifts Amanda's chin with her hand. "I told you."
The following day, Amanda enters with the pill tray and cookies, and charges strait to the window. She spreads open the blinds.
"What are you doing?"
"The sun is good for you."
"I could give a shit about the medicinal benefits of sunlight."
"What are you gonna do about it? You're stuck in that bed."
He grumbles.
"Would you like me to tell you what's happening outside?"
"I could give a shit about the world outside."
"Let's see. There's a woman in a purple hat reading a romance novel on a bench and---"
"---Do us both a favor and give it a rest."
"No."
"Why not?"
"I haven't given you your medicine yet."
"Then let's get it over with. How's the sky?'
"Clear. Few clouds. Real high up. Real faint."
"That boy with the red ball back?"
"Let me check." Al picks up a cookie in stealth while Amanda investigates. "I don't see him. But there's a Chinese woman dragging her dog to the curb. It looks more like a rat, really."
Al closes his eyes. "I hate little dogs."
"Oh, look. He's left his red ball in the bushes. Must have forgot it from the last time." She rambles on. "Two men in suits share a smoke beside the hedge where the red ball is." Amanda turns back to the room. Al's eyes are closed. "Mr. Foster?"
No response. He snores. She puts her hand on the string to close the blinds, then drops her arm, deciding to leave them open. She closes the door softly behind her. Al does not open his eyes to the sound of the door.
The next afternoon, Al stares at the streak of window light on the linoleum. He finds himself creating scenarios for the world outside, the little dog running through a broken sprinkler, two teenagers sneaking behind a tree to make out, the little boy with the red ball, his hair shining in the sun, as he chases his shadow about the grass.
Amanda enters with the tray.
"What's happening out there?"
"Look who's curious!" Amanda goes to her post. "A storm's definitely coming. The mailman's holding an umbrella, just in case."
Al frowns. It wasn't what he imagined at all. Amanda sets out his pills and water, then sits and waits for him to take it. She studies the toy figurine. "It must get pretty boring in this room."
"It has it's moments."
"What did you do before you came to the hospital?" Amanda picks up the figurine.
Al reaches for the soldier. "Don't touch that."
She does not budge when he grabs her hand. He pulls away. She drops her hand. Al looks toward the pool of light below the window. "Has he come back for his red ball? Go check for me."
Amanda goes to the window. She shakes her head. "Must be too cold out. Does he remind you of someone?"
"Who?"
"That little boy?"
Al watches her fiddle with the hole in the sleeve as the sun dances about her face. She looks so much like Wanda, that morning by the docks, when she waited for him to descend the planks, the bright sun around her hair. He picks up the figurine off the table.
"I was a fisherman."
Amanda turns. "Excuse me?"
"You asked what I did. That's what I did. I was a fisherman."
She comes to the bedside. "What kind?"
"Commercial. Salmon in the summer. Tuna in the winter."
"What about hobbies? I suspect you're human like the rest of us. There must have been something you enjoyed."
"When I quit the sea, I built a room in the garage and collected CB radios. Tinkered with things that didn't need fixing. I enjoyed that, I guess. Used to lock myself in there all day. Emma hated it."
"Emma?"
"My wife. I listened to the Coast Guard and the boys talk about big schools on the sonar."
"Do you have any children?"
"One daughter. Her name's Wanda."
"Does she know you're...?"
"We don't speak." He puts the figurine back. "She has a son. My grandson, Mitchell. He doesn't know either."
The figurine tips over. When Amanda reaches to prop it up, Al can feel her breath. "You know if I can smell it, the others can too."
She freezes. "What do you mean?"
"Wanda drank too."
"What's that have to do with anything?"
"Wanda drank so I took Mitchell away from her, locked her up in a place to get dry. She hated me for it. But Emma and I had Mitchell a full year. That was our best year together."
Amanda stood. "I better go."
"Sit down and listen to me."
"I have other patients."
"You've been the one prying, now hear what I got to say."
She sits back in the chair.
"When Wanda dried up, she came to the house and took Mitchell back. Then they disappeared."
"Disappeared?"
"She told me I betrayed her. Got other people involved in a private matter."
"But you did what you thought was right."
"Maybe. Maybe not. I didn't give her much choice. I was never good at talking to people. Especially my family. I rather be away on the ocean somewhere. Maybe I was wrong to take her kid away from her. Months she didn't call. She didn't write. Who knows if she was drinking again. Emma missed them so much. I could feel it at the dinner table. I was a big drinker too. Emma thought that's where Wanda got it. It didn't take long for Emma to drift after that."
"Drift?"
"She had a stroke that fall."
Amanda's beeper sounds; she ignores it. Rain begins to tap on the glass. The beeper sounds again. Amanda checks the number. It's Rita at the front desk.
"I, I."
He nods. "Go on."
Amanda leaves. Al stares at the window, listening to the rain gain steam.
Amanda rushes to the end of the hall, checks for witnesses, then squeezes into the supply closet. In that darkness, she swallows from the flask. Some of it dribbles down her lip as she holds her chest to feel the heat fill her lungs. She swallows so fast water fills up her eyes. She wipes the tear off her cheek, screws the cap back, and steals out again.
She bumps into a nurse in the hall. "Where are you coming from?"
"Just getting some toilet paper for the bathroom. We're out."
The nurse looks down. Amanda does not have any toilet paper in her hand. "Um- hum. You take care of that cranky bastard in 314, don't you?"
She nods.
"You crazy, sister."
Rita charges down the hall to hand Amanda a file. "I've been looking all over for you. Where've you been? Not with Al Foster?"
"He listens to me."
Rita looks Amanda dead in the eye. "Don't trick yourself into believing this man can fill whatever hole you got. He's no substitute."
"Maybe we have to find substitutes where we can."
Rita shakes her head. "What am I gonna do with you?"
Al listens to the storm assault the window. He watches the shadow of raindrops hit the far wall. He pictures Emma sitting at the end of the unlit dinner table while rain hits the windows of their home. She listens to the sounds of the storm. The shadow of raindrops drips down her face.
Al fists his sheets. "Emma. All those years you were stuck in that room like I'm stuck in this bed. Always waiting." A white flash blows over his eyes. Lightening cracks through the blinds. The flash burns up the room. He finds himself sitting at his work stool in the garage out back of the house. It is a summer's day. Al tunes the CB radio and peeks through the garage door. Wanda and Mitchell play in the backyard. Mitchell darts behind the chestnut tree and giggles until his mother grabs him.
When Amanda enters with her tray the next day, the blinds are closed. Al does not look at her as she sets down the medicine. She backs up to the window and starts to open the blinds.
"Don't."
She puts her hand down. "What's wrong?"
"You made me think about that bullshit out of your window. Those bullshit clouds and that bullshit boy with his bullshit ball."
"I thought you liked---"
"---You made me think about a past I wanted dead and buried. Don't come back anymore."
"Why?"
"It's already done. I've requested a new nurse."
"But," Amanda hangs her head. "I thought you---"
"---Get the fuck outa here already! I'm sick of looking at your face!"
She shrinks back. "I'm sorry, Mr. Foster." Amanda stands with her hand at the door. She stands there as if she waits long enough, he'll take it back, he'll invite her in again. If she just waits long enough. But he doesn't.
So she shuts the door.
All evening, Al sits in darkness, and into the next day, and the day after that. He stares in the direction of the closed window.
The nurses return to drawing straws from Rita's fist. Whomever gets chosen, enters room 314, leaves the medicine on the table, checks the drip, then leaves him to his darkness.
A week passes. Al presses the call buzzer.
Julio peeks his head in. "Yeah?"
"The nurse who always came to visit me."
"Amanda?"
"Right. Amanda. I would like to, is she still here?"
Julio shakes his head. "Naw, man."
"Did she move floors?"
"Left the hospital. They found her drinking in the supply closet. Found bottles stashed behind the toilet paper. Had to sack her."
"Oh."
"You need anything else?"
Al shakes his head.
Julio closes the door.
Al stares at the closed blinds. The wind pushes against them, causing leaks of light to flutter over the linoleum. He can see Amanda, as she stood there, the sun cascading over her face while she described the woman with her romance book and Mitchell chasing the red ball around the grass.
His resolve is strong. He uses the last of his energy to sit up. Holding on to the bed rails, Al drops his bare feet to the floor and stands. He steps to the wall and balances against his hand. Al drags himself around the nook, to the window. He grips his fingers around the cord, pulls down. The blinds fold open. Light hits his face like bricks.
Outside, all that stands there is the slab face of a building
shoved up three feet from the glass. Nothing more.
© 2002 Carolyn Anderson Miller, all rights reserved
appears here by permission
Image Window Vision created by and © K.L.Storer, all rights reserved
appears here by permission
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