Golden State: A Novel (30 page)

“Higher,” Dennis says.

I lift it higher.

“Take off your bra.”

“Dennis.”

“We made a deal, didn’t we?”

I don’t dare look back at Heather. I’m on my own now. It feels, in some strange way, as if it really is just the two of us, Dennis and me.

I set the phone down, lift my sweater over my head, and drape it over the balcony railing. I reach behind my back and find the hooks of the bra. I close my eyes and, in one fumbling motion, release the hooks. A memory comes to me: the way he laid me down on the bed and moved over my body so slowly, so gently, the way he kissed my breasts. Slowly, I bring the straps forward and, for a moment, I hold on to an illusion of privacy, my arms folded in front of my chest, before letting the bra fall to my feet.

I pick up the phone and bring it to my ear. On the other end, silence. I glance left, where the avenues of the Outer Richmond slope down toward the sea.

Here I am, on the eve of forty, soon to be divorced, possibly jobless, entirely alone, standing half-naked on the balcony of a run-down hotel room, looking out over my adopted city, my home. There is no room left for humiliation or remorse. Here I am.

For several seconds, my mind simply goes blank. And then I feel the warmth of the sun, a gust of wind blows across my bare skin, and I smell the briny smell of the ocean, taste salt on my tongue.

“That’s nice,” Dennis says.

There’s a tinny clicking sound on the roof above me.

I hear Dr. Bariloche’s voice in my head: “
Primum non nocere.
”

And then I see myself, all those years ago, standing in front of the audience of strangers, the words strange on my tongue: “It may also be within my power to take a life.”

Which is it? Do no harm or take a life? In medical school, why did no one ever offer an answer to these contradictions?

There was a time when Dennis and I might have been a couple, a time when our paths could have merged, but I had the good luck to meet Tom instead. I am responsible for what happened to Eleanor. I am responsible for what happens to Rajiv, and Betty, and, yes, to Dennis. I don’t believe in divine intervention. I believe in cause and effect, the domino power of choice. If we hadn’t reached for the same novel at a bookstore on Clement Street all those years ago, Dennis would not be here, holed up in my office, with a gun in his hands and a murdered woman by his side. He might have gone off the rails somewhere else, at some other time—but not right here, not right now.

Primum non nocere
.

I could step inside right now; I could let this play out some other way. What kind of person does what I am about to do?

“I can’t see you,” I say.

“What?”

“We made a deal.”

Suddenly the curtain flutters, and there he is, standing in front of the low window, smiling. Dennis Drummond. Even from here
I recognize his face. Even from here, even now, I see in him what I saw that first day, when we stood side by side, reaching for the same book. He’s a good-looking man, always was, even at his most down-and-out. If I were up close, I know I would be startled, as I am each time I see him, by the perfect blueness of his eyes.

Then there is the crack of gunshot. I wait for the sting in my chest, the pain, but it doesn’t come. Dennis’s mouth opens in shock, our eyes lock, and he begins to bow toward me.

Primum non nocere
.

A red flower blooms on his forehead, and he folds forward completely, over the windowsill, and it is strangely graceful, the way his body falls from the window and seems to pause for a moment before landing on the soft green grass below.

Oh, God. What have I done?

Heather moans. I step inside and move toward her in a kind of trance.

“Just a few more,” I say. It is all so surreal. And yet it is really happening.

Heather yells for the first time, really yells, a guttural, primal wail of pain and determination. Moments later, the baby’s head begins to crown.

“You can do it,” I urge her, still trembling.

I picture my mother on the cold cement floor of a grocery store in Laurel, the tornado raging around her. I think of her the day she brought my infant sister home. “Everything’s falling into place,” she had said, placing Heather in my arms.

Heather is making no noise now. Her face is red with the effort of pushing, small blood vessels leaving marks across her cheeks.

“Just once more,” I promise my sister.

Then there’s the final push, a howl of joy and pain, and this tiny living thing slides into my waiting hands. Heather is crying, pushing herself up on her elbows to see, her face flushed and glowing.

“Is she okay? Julie?”

“She’s perfect.”

I swab the baby clean and lay the perfect, naked infant facedown in Heather’s arms. I cover them both with the soft blue blanket. Then I gently rub the baby’s back, and she begins to cry. Moments later, she latches onto Heather’s nipple and begins to suck greedily.

There’s more noise on the roof, more shouting and commotion down below. Heather and the baby lie quietly, a world unto themselves. The soft sounds of the baby’s sucking feel real, strangely distilled, while the chaos going on outside this room seems distant, like a movie playing on a screen in some far-away theater.

I retrieve my sweater from the balcony, put it on, and wash my hands.

There are footsteps on the stairs, followed by pounding on the door. “SWAT!” someone calls. “Anyone in here?”

“We’re here,” I answer.

The door begins to open, then slams into the desk. Someone throws his body against the door, forcing the desk aside. A man stands in the doorway, dressed in full black gear.

“Everybody okay?”

Then he sees Heather, lying there with the baby in her arms. He speaks into his walkie-talkie. “Medical! One woman with a newborn and another woman with—” He looks me up and down. I imagine how I must appear: crazed, or broken, or both. “Just get medical.”

Minutes later, the room is filled with people. The SWAT guy,
Greg Watts, and, to my relief, Sandy Bungo, sporting her trademark navy scrubs, pushing an empty wheelchair.

A nurse-practitioner, Sandy was at the VA when I started here, all those years ago. I’d trust her with my life.

“Is Rajiv okay?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God. Betty, too?”

She nods. For the first time in hours, I feel as though I can really breathe. “You look like hell,” Sandy says. “Want me to take over? I brought the essentials.”

“Please.”

“A little privacy, guys,” Sandy yells at the men in uniforms. Then she runs the Apgar test, clamps the cord, checks the baby’s heartbeat, and massages Heather’s stomach to release the afterbirth. Finally, she stitches my sister up, then takes her into the bathroom and helps her bathe while I hold my tiny, beautiful niece.

Minutes later, Heather is dressed in a clean flannel nightgown. Sandy helps her into the wheelchair, and I lay the baby in her arms. Downstairs, I grab my crutches, and we make our way across the parking lot. People have come out of the cafeteria and the hospital and are wandering around, looking dazed. Some are in hospital nightgowns, plus a few staffers in scrubs.

At the entrance, I find Rajiv standing over to the side. His shirt is dark with blood. He’s smoking a cigarette. He quit two years ago.

“You go ahead,” I say to Sandy.

She nods. “We’ll be in room 312.”

As she wheels Heather into the hospital, I walk over to Rajiv. I put my hands on his shoulders and pull him toward me, and for several seconds we stand there, leaning into each other in an awkward embrace. When I pull away, my sweater is damp with blood.

In the lobby, I wait for the ancient elevator. On the third floor, Mr. Fairchild is wandering down the hallway, clutching his walker, which is decorated with little red pom-poms—his granddaughter’s handiwork. “You look like shit,” he calls out cheerily.

“How’s your heart holding up?” I ask.

“So far, so good, Doc. Hey, it was Dennis, wasn’t it?”

I nod.

“Figured.” He shakes his head and shuffles on.

I grab a clean top from a cart of scrubs in the hallway and duck into the staff lounge to change out of my bloody sweater. A few rooms down, I find Heather in bed, Sandy by her side. “Would you like to hold your niece?” Heather asks.

I prop my crutches against the window and ease myself into a chair. Sandy places the baby in my arms. Wrapped tightly in the soft green blanket Heather bought for just this day, the baby looks like an alien washed up on a distant shore. I slowly rock back and forth, mesmerized by the strange face peering out from the covers.

“This should help,” Sandy says, dropping two pills into my palm. I put the Percocet on my tongue and wash it down with water from a paper cup. “I’ll be back,” she says, closing the door softly behind her.

Soon, Heather is sleeping. She can sleep anywhere, in any situation; it has always been that way. “I never knew what a gift it was,” she told me recently, “until I went overseas. If you can sleep, you can escape anything for a few hours.”

I rock the baby back and forth, relieved to finally be alone with my sister and my niece. The normal hospital noise has given way to a disconcerting quiet. Through a small opening in the window above me, I can hear the waves crashing below. The foghorns up and down the coastline continue their random litany. It is hypnotic, that sound. Beneath it all is a steady hum, a tumble of words and song: the radio, turned low, in some other room—my husband’s voice. Even though I can’t make out the words, I recognize him through the rise and fall of it. Those foghorns, that voice: the sound of my life.

I half-expect to hear Mr. Yiu in the background, calling out, “Buster boy! Buster boy!” The Percocet and the exhaustion work their voodoo on my brain. I think of Danielle sitting in my living room, nervous and shaking, holding Ethan in her arms. I remember
my husband’s strong arms lifting me out of the crowd, setting me gently down. How could I not make a life with him, in this beautiful place, in the home we shared? How did I allow it to go wrong?

I rock the baby slowly, quietly. I want to savor this moment. I look at her sweet face, and for a moment I’m lost in a time warp—I am ten years old, holding Heather on the sofa in Laurel. I am startled to see a resemblance to my own baby photos. I tell myself that I am only imagining this reflection through the looking glass of four decades, but I know the similarities are in fact there. There are Heather’s eyes, my mother’s chin. And somewhere, surely, an echo of Heather’s father, that unknown quantity.

It is something astonishing, the sleep of a newborn baby, so deep and still. And then the infant opens her tiny eyes, and a bewildered gaze falls on my face. I know she can’t really see me yet. In her eyes, for now, there is only the difference between light and dark, vague shapes hovering close by; and yet she appears to be looking into my eyes. I am amazed and confused. It is as if she can see right into me. If there is such a thing as déjà vu, then there is also this: an unexpected moment, completely new, unlike anything I have experienced before.

Before the world intervenes, it seems I should take a moment to tell my niece something important, to impart some sort of wisdom or, at the very least, a series of simple life lessons. Six months ago, a year ago, I might have known what to say; I might have found the perfect pronouncement for this profound moment of beginnings. But things have changed, and now I am unsure. Everything I once believed to be permanent has revealed its transience.

There are footsteps in the hallway—quick, short bursts, followed by a light tapping at the door.

“Come in,” I say. At the sound of my voice, Heather stirs.

A man steps into the room. He’s dressed in jeans and a black sweater. Taller than I imagined, less tan. His hair is perfect. He smiles at me, and for a moment I imagine that I’m dreaming.

He glances at the bundle in my arms, and his eyes fill with tears. “Can I hold her?”

“Of course.”

He leans down to take the small, squirming bundle. “She’s beautiful,” he says. He walks over to the bed, kisses Heather on the forehead, and together they admire their child.

Staring, at a loss for words, I quickly recalibrate the world as I knew it. For years, it seemed as though my life was charmed, all the parts falling into place: the husband, the career, the child. Meanwhile, Heather’s world unraveled. But when I wasn’t looking, everything reordered itself. Now it seems we have undergone some strange reversal. In our backyard in Laurel, we had a rickety seesaw where Heather and I would sometimes sit. I can’t help but feel the same principle has been at work all along: one rises, the other falls.

“Julie,” Heather says, smiling, “meet James. James, meet Julie.”

Sandy appears in the doorway of Heather’s room. Once again, she’s pushing an empty wheelchair. She glances at the governor, does a quick double take.

“But you’re—”

“Late,” he says. “I was in Sacramento when I got the call. We had some trouble landing at SFO.”

It’s the first time I’ve seen Sandy nearly speechless, but she quickly recovers. “Congratulations,” she says. “Get in,” she commands, pulling the wheelchair up beside me. On our way out, she turns back to the governor. “Just so you know, I voted for you.”

“I hope I didn’t disappoint.”

“Jury’s still out,” she replies.

In the X-ray room, I climb onto the table. Sandy arranges the lead blanket, places the cold plate beneath my ankle, and positions the machine. “Lie still,” she says, stepping behind the wall. The machine clicks and hums. “I’m not going to ask you about that man I just saw with your sister,” she says. “But just so you know, I
can
keep a secret.”

“Believe me, I’m as surprised as you are.”

“I doubt that.” She comes back to the table and removes the X-ray plate. “In some ways we’re lucky the whole city is in chaos.
Otherwise, we’d be in the middle of a media storm by now.” And then she disappears.

I prop myself up on my elbows and gaze out the window. A wall of fog hangs over the ocean. It begins to rain, gently at first, and then it pours. The wind blows the rain in great horizontal sheets, and I’m glad not to be out there. Glad to be here, in this warm place I know so well, my second home. I realize that my fingers are crossed, that I’m wishing for something. I’m wishing for unity—a grand statement that things can work, that we can all, somehow, get along.