Beautiful to the Bone (The Enuis Trilogy #1) (11 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I finally found the front entrance to the Metzinger, the rehabilitation hospital, and to my relief the corridor lights had been dimmed to a blue hue. It was four in the morning. Out of the wind I had to ask myself if I had been listening to Harold too long, all that Dickens stuff? But if Charles was real I had to do something or I’d add regret to my unrest.

No one was at the front desk. Quick action from the hospital staff was required.
I didn’t think Charles could survive the night.

But that clinic, it was such an open, public place, with an uneasy smell of floor wax and rubbing alcohol. Atoms recoiled. I stepped forward.

Along one passageway after the next, a steady wind came at me —full tilt dread. What could be the worst, they’d gasp. Then I’d feel . . . embarrassed. Ugly. Out of my element. All of the above. Angry.

Occasionally a door clicked open or slammed closed. I flinched, but no bodies appeared. Murmuring voices. I listened closely.
Real or in my head?
“That poor man in the cold.” The anonymous walls smothered my voice, absorbed it, and again I was alone.

I followed a maze of hallways until I came to a smaller, brightly lit lobby with an admitting desk.
Finally
. I hated the light, I hated being exposed.

“One of your patients is out there, in the cold!”

A pretty Filipina nurse juggled a clipboard and low bleating hospital phones,
and
she filled out a form being dictated to her over the intercom. She slid the clipboard under her arm and held up her hand to silence me. Rings adorned every finger.

Please don’t do that!

“Yes,” said the nurse into the intercom, “I got it.” She smiled distractedly at me. “Yes, Dr. Saverino, yes, I understand.”

Hurry up
.

We were both in our thirties, but above the admitting desk hung a mirror and my large convex reflection. We appeared twenty years apart. Bundled with my large dark glasses I looked like a latter-day Greta Garbo, intent on anonymity.

Please, just get off the phone! Skip the bureaucracy. Stop effing wasting time!
“One of your patients is out there. You’ve got to go, now!”
Set the rescue in motion so I can disappear
.

The nurse
still
didn’t seem to understand. She lifted her cutesy bureaucratic little head. I followed it. Over my shoulder and across the lobby, I glimpsed a clumpy security guard dressed in a blue gray uniform.

“One of our patients?” the nurse asked, politely clicking off the intercom but still preoccupied with the form.

“Is this an asylum?” I took a breath and immediately corrected myself. “A psychiatric hospital?”

The nurse rested her pen and faced me, alarmed. It was about time. “Not usually. Is this for you? You need a recommendation?” Though charitable, she apparently didn’t understand.

“Out at the lighthouse.” His boots. “He may be military, a vet.”

“We got a lot of those, but we’re not missing anybody tonight.” The phone rang.

The nurse took the call.

Aw, come on.

She went sideways to me. And I waited. I rubbed my arms. I paced in a small circle, breathing hard, watching the nurse.

What’s with these people!

When she eventually turned back to me —breathe, I told myself— I dropped my shoulders and, in an attempt to show the nurse the importance of her attention, I removed my sunglasses. No doubt my eyes darted randomly in the fluorescent light, but she didn’t react except to glance once more, barely a head feint, to the security guard.

“You sure you don’t need help?” she asked.

“He said he was Charles Dickens, I’m not making this up. He talked about the madhouse. I thought maybe here. One of your patients.”

A gaunt man in blue hospital garb came out of nowhere and watched us intently as he crossed the lobby pushing a cart.

“I don’t know about that,” said the nurse, and I felt aggression. She was too slow to comprehend what she needed to do. Then she added, “Did you take anything tonight?”

“Take?”

“Drugs. A combination of things? Perhaps you were distraught over something at home or—”

“What?”
Why do people always assume?
“Listen, I’m trying to save somebody out there! Out there! A man needs help. It’s killer cold
out there
. You need to effing help.” I was shouting, it’s true, and waving my hands, maybe even hyperventilating, but what the hell did it take to get these folks’ attention?!

The nurse must have been on Valium. “I’m not the police, I’m not trying to bust you. I merely want to help.” She effing smiled.
Smiled!

“It’s not me. I don’t need your effing help. There’s a guy out there, Charles Dickens;
he
needs help.”

“What kind of help?”

Oh, for god’s sake. “Where’s the madhouse? He talked about a madhouse.”

“I’m Doctor Elias,” said a young intern appearing next to me. He wore scrubs and looked to be in his mid-twenties and clearly uncomfortable. He said nothing more, so the Filipina nurse filled in for him.

“Dr. Elias is the Admitting Physician on duty tonight.”

The security guard stepped to my other side.

“What is this?” Surrounded, I shrugged them off. I gave them my cornered badger look. Not a blink. “Charles Dickens, he talked about a madhouse.”

The two men closed back in.

Really!

The Filipina nurse continued calmly. “There’s no ‘madhouse’ on this island anymore. The only
asylum
on this island was next door, long ago. 1830s-40s, I think. Infamous but long gone. If you wait you can talk privately to Dr. Elias, can’t she, doctor?”
She
was giving the young doctor guidance.

“Yes, I—”

I interrupted. “Next door, here on Roosevelt Island?”

“What?”

“The madhouse, the asylum? You said—”

“Yes, ma’am.”
Ma’am
. She pointed to the building next door,
my
building. “But it was long ago, it was Blackwell Island then. It’s all rebuilt, at least on the inside. Fancy now, upscale condos. The Octagon. I should make that kind of money. Let the resident discuss this with you. Dr. Elias—”

“No!” I was off balance, my eyes spun. I tried to step away but the security guard took my arm, silently, firmly. The young intern stepped behind me, blocking my escape.

“We’ll just make sure you’re okay,” said the Filipina.

Something pricked my neck, warm, spreading. I immersed in immaculate water.

***

The squeaking of . . . wheels? A chair perhaps or . . .

“Aah, there we are.” A smiling doctor leaned over me.
Not
the young intern; it was an older woman. Horrible breath. Momma’s mouth. Whiskers and, despite her smile, trenches of disapproval radiating across her cheeks.

“What?” I tried lifting myself up but I was strapped! To a gurney. The room reverberated white hot with light. I squinted. The straps pulled tight.

“Are you feeling better?” The doctor broadcasted the same plastic grin to the female orderlies on either side of me. “I’m Doctor Saverino. This is nurse assistant —”

“What are you doing?” I was groggy. “Turn off the light.”

“We were afraid you might hurt yourself so we gave you a sedative. A gentle one and, boy, it really knocked you out. You’re
very
sensitive.”

“A what? There are laws, you can’t—”

“Well, you’re fine now, I imagine. Dr. Elias was doing his best. Shall we let you up so you can answer more questions?”

“
More
questions? Look—”

“Shall we let you up or not?”

“Yes, yes. And turn down the light, please.”

“You’ll remain calm?”

I was gooey soft around the edges. “Yes, I’m calm.”

The doctor gave permission. The orderlies unbuckled the straps and helped me sit up, and as the older orderly went to lower the light, the younger female deliberately glanced her palm over my left breast. “Hey.”

On auto-control, the doctor and the other orderly didn’t notice.

“Under sedation, you admitted you had considered suicide tonight.” The doctor was apathetic.

My forehead and cheeks prickled with shame. I felt nauseous. “You had no right.”

“Under the law, we may have saved your life. It was Dr. Elias’ call, not mine, mind you.”

Unsteady, I slipped backward. The young orderly caught me and ran her hands around the curves of my waist.
Hey!
I’m sure I mustered disapproval.

Instead of contrition the orderly raised her eyebrows, widened her deep-water eyes, and pursed her lips, offering a subtle invitation.
Huh
. Then I noticed the entwined blue serpent and green mermaid tattooed on her neck.

The doctor continued. “Eunis Cloonis, is that correct?”

“Uh, yes, and I’m not suicidal, so you can let me go now.”

“Age?”

“Thirty-seven. I thought you already —you probed me while I was sedated? A complete invasion of my privacy.”

“Ya were going to harm that beautiful body of yours,” said the younger orderly. This time the room cooled —even the doctor turned to censure the orderly.

“Mrs. Cloonis, where do you live?”

My arms took poor direction; eventually they folded in front of me. I listed to the right and had to rest one arm on the gurney to steady myself. I remained silent.

“Do you have family?”

I grunted a laugh.

“A husband?”

A husband? Yes, that. The hard answer would put a stop to their questions. “He’s dead.”

The doctor slipped a quick peek at the older intern. “And was that recent?”

“Recent enough. Listen, am I under arrest, because—?”

“How recent?”

“I’m not legally obliged to answer your questions and,” I started to clear my head, “if you hold me here any longer, I’m likely to sue you and your damn hospital.”

The doctor seemed to consider. “How did he die?”

I let him down
. And developed a blank spot in my memory, a spot I couldn’t or didn’t want to retrieve. “None of your business. Do you know the law firm of Stryver, Jaggers and Vholes?”

“No.”

“It’s my father’s firm.”
A complete lie
; lawyers created by Dickens and read to me by Harold, with Dickens’ clear characterization — and Harold’s tacit agreement — that attorneys were venal manipulators, yet here they were to save me. “I’m not your specimen. Shall I call my attorneys?”

“Very well.” Dr. Saverino stepped back. “But if you would like some medication under the circumstances we could assign a permanent doctor to your case.”

“I don’t have a case.” Though still groggy I found a handhold of control. “Just give me back my jacket and dark glasses.”

“We’re only trying to help you, dear.”

“Right.”

“We’ll keep you on file.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Elizabeth?”

“Yes . . . Eunis?”

“Am I waking you? Because . . .”

“No, no. Sydney’s been up for an hour. How nice for you to call.”

Curled in my high-backed chair, Sam in my palm, stroking his little head with my thumb, I stared out my thirteenth floor window, through sheets of gray morning sleet, the New York skyline barely visible.

“Is everything alright?” asked Elizabeth.

“I don’t know. Yes. Yes, sure. I only wanted to say, well, is Sydney okay?”

“Much better. You know how kids are.”

“Not really, but I think I’d like to have that drink with you sometime and find out.” I lifted Sam to my shoulder.

“I’d love that.” Elizabeth waited for me to continue, but it was a moment before I knew what to say.

“Elizabeth?”

“Yes? You sure you’re okay?”

I was glad she couldn’t see me, holding my head in my hands. “You seem to go away,” Elizabeth had once said, so I did my best to hide those moments. The dark glasses helped. They always had. But those moments away were not flights of fantasy or moments of reflection, they were blanks, spaces of lost time. Something I didn’t want to see. Another embarrassment. And they were coming more frequently.

“I don’t know,” I whispered. I’d made the bed, washed the cup and spoon, straightened the furniture three times. I started to whimper.

“Eunis, what’s wrong?”

I wiped away the tears.

“
Eunis?
”

“I’m sorry I bothered you. This is your weekend, your time with Sydney. It’s very selfish of me.”

“Actually Roddy will be here in an hour; it’s
his
weekend to be with Syd. How bout we get that drink?”

“It’s not even ten AM.”

“You don’t know me very well.” Elizabeth playful. “How bout coffee?”

“I’m not very good with being outside.”

“Well, certainly not today.”

“I meant in public.”

“Oh.”

“Never mind. I’ll be fine, really.”

“Where
would
you be comfortable?”

***

Two hours later, there was a buzz from the concierge, followed minutes later by a knock at my door. I hadn’t moved from my chair except to put Sam back in his cage and page listlessly through my new textbook. Developmental biology before molecular: standards for evaluating the FLK, the Funny Looking Kid. Dysmorphology. Maybe I was crazy, but there
was
objective normative data for what a person
should
look like. I’d give it another try.

I straightened up and pushed through the leaden room to the door. A check through the peephole guaranteed that it was Elizabeth.
But who else would it be.
I set myself before opening it.

“Hi.” Elizabeth held brown paper bags in each hand. Not a beauty, but normative: plain, thin, in her early forties. Her overcoat dripped. Her short blonde hair, with a streak of fluorescent purple front to back, was matted and flattened.

“Hi.” I wasn’t sure why I’d invited her.

“Can I come in?” Elizabeth roughed her damp hair.

“Oh, yes, of course. Sorry.”

First thing, Elizabeth surveyed the apartment. Inviting her was a mistake. “I brought bagels.” She peeled off her coat and hung it in the hall closet without an offer from me. “Kinda dark in here. I know your eyes . . . would you mind if we turn on a light? Light a candle?”

“Sure, I’m sorry.”

She glanced around, lifted and put down a couple of my celebrity magazines and inspected the genetics textbook, rubbed her arms. Disapproving? “Diverse reading.”

“Sorry.” I moved to the thermostat and turned it up. “I keep it fairly cold.”

“You don’t need to keep apologizing.”

Switching on a lamp here and there softened the atmosphere. “Sorry.”

“Hey!”

We both chuckled.
Compose yourself
. Except for Harold and my Minnesota family, this was the first time I’d ever had a visitor in my home. Home?

I offered Elizabeth a seat before realizing I only had the one easy chair in the apartment. “You sit here. I’ll sit on the floor.”

“How bout we both sit at the counter?” She pulled out warm bagels and a small container of cream cheese, and without prompting, found the knife drawer, sliced the bagels, and spread the cream cheese. She handed one to me. I turned it over; I guess I studied it.

“You haven’t had a bagel before?”

“Not like this. They’re usually spongy.”

“Frauds. That’s a Minnesota bagel.
This
is a New York bagel. Fresh out of Morrie’s oven. Go on.”

I took a bite as Elizabeth spied Sam the Shadow in the kitchen corner. “Sammy! Your momma freed you.” She went over to the cage and stuck her finger in. She offered him a small piece of bagel. Sam accepted.

“Well, this is cozy. And what a view!”

Mouth full of bagel, a good excuse to mutter.

“This is deluxe. Aren’t you happy here?”

“Looks are deceiving.” I wiped cream cheese off my hands.

“Eunis, what’s the matter?”

I shook my head.
What’s there to say?

Elizabeth reached out and touched my arm. “Tell me . . . please.”

I turned to the window.

“Please.”

Compose yourself
. “What’s in the other bag?” I pointed to the second brown bag on the counter.

“Oh, I thought you’d never ask. Where’re your glasses?” She was up and pulling down two glasses before I could even point to the cupboard. “The cure for a cold winter day.” Elizabeth revealed a bottle of Southern Comfort and poured two healthy shots.

“I don’t know. I don’t really drink.”

“Because?”

I stiffened.

“I came all the way across town. Let’s have a little holiday cheer.” She handed me a glass, then grabbed her own and clinked the glasses. “Merry Christmas.”

Merry. That’s a myth
. I sensed the sadness buried behind Elizabeth’s cheerful eyes.
You asked her to come
. I took a tentative sip. The sweet burn opened my eyes.

“You’ll get used to it, you’ll see. Take another nip.”

***

Within twenty minutes, the room had loosened up. Atoms warmed in my chest.
Putting my atoms in order.

“What’s going on?” Elizabeth finally asked.

I closed my eyes. “You’re gonna think I’m . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

“One thing I know about you, even working with you these few months, is that you’re smart and responsible. That’s what I know.”

“Look at me, I’m hideous. I’ve always been hideous.”

“You’re unique.”

“So I trip over a curb, you say it’s interpretive dance?”

Elizabeth smiled. “Your hair’s gorgeous. Effervescent. Your skin is like alabaster. I wish I had your body. And your face is exotic, one of a kind.”

“One of a kind. I scare the crap out of people.” I actually laughed.

“Not everyone. Not those who really see you. Like your husband. Didn’t you say you were married?”

“He’s dead.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“The point is . . . by all objective data I’m an outlier, worse than a FLK.”

“What’s that?”

“Doesn’t matter. Do you think I’m unbalanced?”

“Unbalanced? Why unbalanced?”

“I have blank spaces . . .places in my memory that are just . . . empty.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Join the club.”

Tell her
. “And sometimes I hear things, feel things.”

“What kind of things?”

The closet, the shed. “When I was a child, I started hearing things, feeling and knowing things in advance. I’m not even sure what came first.”

“Prophecies?”

“Or maybe it’s that I’m nuts. Delusional. I imagine.”

“All kids think they’re mystical. They are, in a way.”

“No. I
knew
things. I could predict the near future and feel the past.” I cast an eye over the apartment. Was I going to set off the voices? “You know, like crickets.”

Elizabeth shook her head. Didn’t understand.

“See, you already think I’m crazy.”

“No. I just don’t get what you’re saying.”

“Crickets. They predict temperature. If you count the number of chirps they make. They accurately predict. There’s a scientific equation for their predictions. It’s called The Dolbear formula. And low-flying birds, they can predict weather. The point is, so can I. I think.”

“Well, I guess . . .”

“See, I knew it.”

“No, no. I’m just thinking about it. Can you predict other things or only weather?”

“Well, I can
feel
things. In my chest, in my heart. Like when I get next to certain people. If I’m in a small enclosed space —if it’s highly-charged.”

“Highly charged?”

“Like I feel atoms, frequencies.”

“Can you feel me?”

I wanted her to know that I felt her sadness, that she wasn’t alone. I wanted to hug her to set the sadness free. But I was afraid I was being intrusive and interfering. And maybe it wasn’t very safe for her to get close to me.

“Well, can you?”

I took a small step. “I can sense you, yes.”

“And?”

“I don’t want to meddle.”

She laughed. “Come on, I want to know.” She beamed.

“Well, you’re sad, I can feel that.”

Her face tumbled but she said, “No, I’m fine.”

“Okay.”

“Really.” She rehung her smile.

“See, my electromagnetic field is unreliable.” Her face snapped taught like a rope; she wanted me to change the subject.
Let it go.
“Anyway, do you think I’m schitzo?”

She relaxed her shoulders thankful I’d moved on in the conversation. “I don’t think so.”

“Because my family thinks so.”
Harold’s father thinks so; maybe the Bemidji police too
. “And there have been some other things.”

“Like?”

I hesitated. Elizabeth filled her glass again. “Go on,” she said, weaving a bit on the stool.

It was so absurd. “Okay, okay, you asked for it. Here in this apartment.”

“What?”

“I’ve heard noises. Voices. Or I
sense
them.”

“Voices? Do you hear them now?” Elizabeth scanned the room.

“No, not now.”

“Me neither. What kind of voices?”

“Voices.” What the hell, I drained the glass of sweet whiskey.

“Your neighbors.”

“Not in this building.”

“What kind of voices then?”

“Crazy people. From the past, I think, so I know it makes no sense.” I felt gooey again. I straightened my neck. “It doesn’t
sound
scientific.”

“We’re all kinda crazy.”

“No.” I took a breath and started over. “These are lunatics, asylum lunatics. Depraved. Pitiful. What’s
that
got to do with the future? And, and I’ve even seen one.” I pointed to the edge of the island. “Out there.”

“You’ve
seen
one. Did he have a name?” She grinned.

Okay, here goes
. . . “Charles Dickens.”

Elizabeth snorted. I snorted. She tittered. I tittered. She started laughing. I started laughing.

We both cracked up, and in a series of giggles and shrieks that went on for minutes, rising and falling and rising again, we ended up in tears, barely able to contain ourselves or remain on our stools. I’d never experienced such laughter. Ever.

“Oh my god.” The realization grabbed my guts and knotted them tight. “Oh my god.” I started to cry, to sob. I was overwhelmed with tears. Of release. Escape. Liberation. Like a hole ripped open and I was imploding. Some perverse progress.

I sagged off the stool to the floor in a fetal position. I guess Elizabeth followed me down, because she held me as I wailed hysterically.