A Quiet Neighbor (7 page)

“Neil?” Elizabeth pauses. When I don’t answer,
she changes tactics. “George?” she asks again, humored that I gave the
neighbors our costume names instead of our real ones.

“Huh? Oh sorry. Is the poopmëister finished… Martha?”

Elizabeth chuckles until her lake blue eyes
widen in startling horror and lock with mine. She grabs her chest as her body
jerks in quiet spasms under my trembling hands. The curly white wig she donned
for her Martha Washington costume tumbles off her pulsating head and onto the
cold concrete sidewalk below, unmoving.

As the darkness closes in, encasing our two
motionless silhouettes, a dog yaps, a coyote howls, and my body crumples to the
ground beside my dying wife. I am left grief-stricken; my face, damp with
tears.

HOSPITAL
ROOM (II):

Saturday,
June 23, 2012

11:47
A.M.

THE LATE MORNING SUN PEEKED SHYLY
through the unruly plastic blinds hanging over a single window, casting long
shadows across Sgt. Whimplestein’s sighing body. Freckles were starting to form
over the left side of his face from daily exposure to the harsh sun streaming
through the window. No one considered the need to apply sunblock on a coma
patient.

A handful of greeting cards lined the shelf
below the television set, a few from each major holiday, tokens from his
granddaughter throughout the years. For quite a while she had been the only
visitor to enter Room 301 of Grossmont Hospital. A single framed photo of a
young woman with child, creased with age, stood on Sgt. Whimplestein’s bedside
table, angled toward him. No recognizable signs of family, past or present, were
displayed on Joe’s side of the room.

The nurses had already come and gone, first
fiddling with the obnoxious beeping machines, rearranging countless tubes, and
then scrawling on the charts that hung ominously at the foot of each bed. The
charts were a lifeline, a thread begun upon admittance and snipped at recovery.
Or death. Who you were, the condition of  your internal organs throughout the
day, which leg to amputate, which drugs would keep you alive, and what drugs would
kill you, all resided in the patient’s chart. While stuck in the plastic bed
with its rubber-lined mattress, you were held captive by your chart. You lived
and you died by your chart, by the accuracy of yarn snippets that each rushed
and sleep-deprived staff member spun into thread.

I wonder what my status report says today? Blood
pressure: high. White blood count: low. Skin color: yellow. Stool: watery.
Prognosis: terminal. Pancreatic cancer progressing. Latest CT scans indicate
new skeletal metastases in vertebral column, liver and lungs. Delusions
forming. Talks to himself. Heart-broken.

I don’t talk to myself…not really. I simply pass
the monotonous day by talking to my roomie, and friend, the good ‘ol Sarge.

Joe turned his head slightly on the crinkly
sweat-stained pillow.

You hear me over there, Whimpy? If I haven’t
told you already, you’re a great listener. And so what if I talk to myself
sometimes. I got to do something to pass the time. I’m going crazy trapped here
in this bed, staring at the empty walls, beeping monitors, and puke green
sheets…

Now, where was I? Oh yeah, the stupid dog. It
was all the dog’s fault I say. Why anyone wants a pet that craps more than you
do is beyond me. I guess if I wanted to be completely honest, that pug did grow
on me...

Joe lifted his stiff shoulders in an attempt to
form a shrug, which came off as a jerky twitch.

At least my dog didn’t bark so damn much.

Is it me, or is the dog dumb when it barks
incessantly at the same people who walk the same fuckin’ path every day? I
think the dog’s dumb. You see, there’s this collie-dog on the corner of Mission
Gorge and Royal Drive, sporting a red and white bandana—a real cowdog if there
ever was one—and every time I walked by, it would bark at me like I’m a killer.
A killer! Humph! You would think after a few months, years even, that the dog
would recognize me and believe that I am not going to waltz into his owners’
front door and shoot them point blank. What’s that? Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Watch
what I say. The dog’s probably stressed out of its mind. Do dogs suffer cardiac
arrest? If so, this dog better watch out, his days are numbered.

Sgt. Whimplestein’s chest gently rose and fell,
providing comfort and a sense of rhythm to Joe’s rambling mind. Joe scanned the
shelf and spotted a pumpkin card, eyeing it longingly. A knot formed in his
throat and he stiffly grabbed for a cup of water that was generously poured by
the lunch-time nurse. He swallowed the cool liquid. The burning knot eased away
and he sighed in relief. Being on his deathbed, he appreciated life’s little
enjoyments and viewed them as miniature blessings. Even his morning BM into the
bed pan gave him a quiet satisfaction.

Halloween’s a funny time, don’t you think my
friend?

Sgt. Whimplestein’s chest rose and fell, as if
on cue. The constant whooshing sound intermingling with the beeping monitors had
become background music for Room 301. Some days when the pain was too great,
the noises dissipated into thin air and were replaced with the ringing in his
ears. Other days the noises aggravated him like a pesky fly that hovered
incessantly. Then there were those days when the noises were like lullabies,
lulling Joe to sleep.

Tucked in the abrasive hospital sheets that
scratched his skin raw, Joe nodded and licked his lips. The moisture from the
measly cup of water had evaporated. His voice turned hoarse and throaty as he
continued his mindless rants.

Yes, I mean, it is weird that during this time,
and this time of year only, it is acceptable for people to buy a large piece of
squash and dump it on their front porch to rot as part of their festive display
declaring their neighborly camaraderie and participation. Tisk. Tisk. How dumb
we must be to have carried on this ridunculous tradition for centuries. Don’t
you think? Who believes in witches and evil spirits these days anyways? A
squash isn’t going to ward off a damn thing.

Then there’s the issue of costumes. Kids, teens,
and adults get all dolled up, enthusiastic to wear a mask and pretend they’re
something they are not. Ha. Don’t they already do that in real life? Kids play
pretend with their friends, teens pretend they’re adults, and adults put up a
front at work and then another front at home. A person spends their entire life
pretending; constantly switching masks to portray a different character while
hiding their true unbridled identity. Is it fear that goads them down this
ridiculous path? Shame? Both? I swear.

Anyways, I think subconsciously they think they
want to be the “character” they’re portraying, but actually they are dressing
up as a character that has been donned “popular” and “publicly approved” by
their peers and society. Why women think being a slut and a whore is “publicly
approved” is beyond me, but as the years pass the outfits get tighter and
skimpier to the point that clothes will soon be discarded and deemed unnecessary.
Maybe the next “cool” costume will be a nudist. Would that be legal? I don’t
see a problem with that, especially, when they allow people to dress up in
costumes that on any other day would be cause to toss them in a holding cell
for the night.

What rubbish!

This topic raised a fire in Joe’s belly that
jutted into his spine and flashed in streaks of burning pain. The rant concluded
as incomprehensible sheets of noise blubbered from his foaming mouth. Thick,
yellowish bubbles pulsed from the corners of his cracked lips and skimmed down
his chin to pool in the crevice formed by his neck and pillow. The foul odor of
vanilla pudding, corn mash, and bile settled disturbingly in the air.

A young nurse rushed in; the same one who made
her daily routines at 1:00 P.M. Although the young nurse should have been
familiar to Joe, the sudden change of routine startled him and his fit worsened.
The young nurse looked distraught. Her light auburn hair was tied in a secure
bun at the nape of her slender neck. Freckles splashed her thin face and her
gray eyes widened in concern. Keeping her emotions in check, her lips stretched
thinly across her pale face as her hands moved with practiced precision.

Following protocol, she immediately checked his
vitals. Scanning his chart, she saw he wasn’t scheduled for his meds until the
following hour. She delivered a small dose of morphine anyway to quell the
breakthrough pain. Doctors weren’t the only ones who saved lives in this
hospital. Not that she was ever recognized as a heroine. She was just one of
many who hung in the background, silent and docile, while kept on the balls of
her feet. But, she didn’t sign up for inhumane shifts and emotional abuse from doctors
and patients alike for a measly pat on the back; she signed up for this job to
help others in need, and that’s what she intended to do.

Punching in the prescribed dosage on the
digital machine, she watched in awed satisfaction as the molecular miracles of
modern medicine were set to work—drops of clear liquid moved from the machine
to Joe’s arm in one effective loop of thin tubing. Joe’s quips died down. His
jaw turned lax as the stream of milky saliva calmed to a slow trickle.

The young nurse jotted down the prescribed
dosage and the time of injection in his chart, and then hung the clipboard back
on the hook at the foot of his bed. She then closed the blue dividing curtain
that separated Joe from Sgt. Whimplestein, to provide some semblance of privacy
when the Sergeant’s granddaughter arrived for her daily visit.

After regaining the room’s sense of calm and
order, she felt an immediate sense of accomplishment and returned to the break
room down the hall where her chicken noodle soup cooled on the counter, her
sizzling romance novel splayed face down beside it.

Detective Kylie Kang:

3:00
P.M.

I arrive at the hospital with a potted Chinese
lantern plant hoping to brighten Gramps’ room. Walking into the bland, sterile
room always irks me. The sour smells and drab appliances are unsettling. The
fake wood veneer of the furniture adds not warmth, but hopelessness to the
room.

The bed is positioned near the room’s only
window, which would be auspicious if not for the rumpled plastic blinds that
always seem to be drawn tight. A lacquered side table stands to the left of the
bed, where my grandmother’s (
Halmoni’s
) picture is framed and kept
beside Gramps’ head.

The lumpy green-vinyl chair where I spend many
sleepless nights is tucked into the far corner of the room; again the orderlies
have moved it away from the bedside position where I prefer it.

In the space separating Gramps and his roommate
is an old television, a round white clock (running a few minutes slow), and a
single laminate shelf that holds a growing collection of all the cards I’ve
left for him throughout the years.

No fragrant bouquets of freshly cut flowers
grace the room. No music, just the repetitive beeps from the obtrusive monitors
that hover around both guests like overprotective parents.

I place the plant on the side table—turning the
pot until its best side faces Gramps—and toss my bag onto the green chair in
the corner. Quickly, I size up the room, noting the blue dividing curtain drawn
tight, hindering passersby from gawking through the doorway and offering some
semblance of privacy.

Gramps’ neighbor must be having one of his bad
spells again. Unlike Gramps, the guy is reminded every second that he is dying.
A nurse once informed me that the guy was terminally ill. Lying in bed with a
pain so great that it rips through his body while the cancer eats away at his
internal organs. He is being constantly poked and prodded, infused with dose
after dose of morphine to ease the pain. I can’t recall a time when the curtain
wasn’t pulled closed.

Although I wish I could hear Gramps’ deep
baritone voice again, I’m glad he’s not aware of his surroundings. At least he
is shielded from feeling any pain, of knowing what has become of him, of seeing
what he no longer is. Some, I know, aren’t so lucky.

I fiddle with the position of the plant once
more and then pull the drab uncomfortable chair from the corner. Before sitting
down I open the window. Light streams in, and the cool breeze kisses my clammy
face. The stagnant air in the hospital room always makes my head feel heavy and
dull.

From this vantage point, I can see Grossmont
Center to the left and 24-Hour Fitness straight ahead. Summer is here and
people are desperately trying to get beach-bod ready. A group of women wearing
spandex shorts and colorful sport tanks stride cockily out of the building,
holding half empty water bottles and rolled up yoga mats. Their glowing faces
are dewy with sweat and masked in waterproof makeup.

Whenever I get the luxury of spending an hour
working on my glutes and abs, I sure don’t fuss around in skimpy tights and
plastered makeup. What is it with these women? Oh yeah, I almost forgot about
the gym’s two-way mirror—the viewing station—that separates the classroom from
the weight room. Guys line the window as they pump their biceps with the
largest dumbbells they can handle, thinking they’ll be able to kill two birds
with one stone: revel in their own masculinity while also taking in the visual
feast of downward dog on the other side. Without my binoculars to confirm, I
bet those women aren’t wearing their wedding rings.

Pulling my eyes away from the window, I cross
to Gramps’ left side and kiss his sunken cheek. The hard-cop demeanor I
perfected at the Academy cracks when I look at his peaceful face.

As a rookie homicide detective for the San
Diego Police Department, I have already witnessed my share of sadness and
despair: victims mangled and abused, bodies tattered and splattered beyond
recognition, and families of the deceased unable to string together coherent
sentences. Give me the aftermath of horror any day; that, I can handle. But,
the slow, desperate suffering I observe in the hospital is different. My vics are
dead and gone by the time I meet them, murdered by someone that can be tracked
and caught. Black-and-white, cause-and-effect. The logic and order of my job
allows me to compartmentalize the startling brutality.