Holding Still for as Long as Possible (28 page)

I keep walking towards the car. I hear Roxy yelling after me, but she's really yelling to herself.

“Oh really, it's not that fucking simple, eh?
Look at me
,
I'm Josh
.
I'm so calm
.
I'm so used to this shit
.
Billy's going to
die
, you fucking asshole. Fuck you, man. Fuck you.”

[ 30 ]

Billy

Billy thinks she's sitting in the kitchen at the Parkdale Gem in May 2006. She can really feel the hangover, her head in her hands as she turns to read the words iggy pop and boob, spelled out in rainbow lettering on the fridge.

Her wrist, ribboned in a plastic hospital bracelet, is a limp gift over the metal railing of her bed. She is dimly aware of friends sitting in the waiting area. But it's like an overlapping dream, one where she knows she's in the hospital, and another where she is sitting, hungover, in the Gem kitchen.

She overhears the news that Josh is driving her mother and sister in Maria's car, and she imagines uncomfortable silence and small talk as he zips down the 427, frustrated by his lack of lights or sirens. The white noise of the hospital leaks into Billy's thoughts, but she doesn't wake up. She has a lateral skull fracture with an epidural hematoma. Her brain surgery is over and she is in recovery, but she still needs an
mri
. They are prepping her.

Her body is a field of weeds, memories, and imagined present-tense.

Her unconscious vision continues: after two glasses of water, an Advil, she is suddenly at her new job, the tele-research company. At twenty-five, she's the oldest employee. She likes being older because none of the kids recognize her from the Lilith Fair tour or the cheesy
cbc
Juno Award moment. All night she thinks,
One more call and then I'll quit
. From one call to the next, it's always the last one. The second to last one. She feels lonely in the office, but she's almost comforted by loneliness sometimes. This is fame's biggest consequence.

She thinks,
One more call and then I'll go to the washroom to put on some gloss
. She smiles weakly at Stan, the evening supervisor, as he sits behind his computer desk through the glass doors playing Tetris as if nothing is wrong. Billy knows that Stan has a crush on her. Billy thinks Stan is creepy but pictures having sex with him anyway. Pulling on those cheap ties. Slapping his face. Involuntary two-second daydreams.

She adjusts her headset, runs an index finger over the next typed name on the list and phone number. All Edmonton contacts. It must be dinnertime out West. Perfect time to harass people.
Good Will
.

[ 31 ]

Josh

Billy's brain is being drilled into right now. I touch my temples. My fingers are shaking, cold at the tips.

Outside in the parking lot, her father is pacing, talking quietly on the phone. Nobody knows what to do. I check my phone, then go up to the room where we're allowed to gather. Maria comes in with a tray of tea and coffee, a box of mini doughnuts. I take one out of habit; it tastes like paper. I crumble half of it into a ball and shove it in my pocket. I try to delete any visions from my head — the time I witnessed residents basically kill a patient with their incompetence. All those secret moments of incredible lack of judgement that lead to death. It's routine. Instead, I try to envision Billy's operation going smoothly, everyone in the room well slept and concentrating.

I'm repeating myself for the new arrivals among Billy's family and close friends: “We know she has a lateral skull fracture with an epidural hematoma. That means they have to drill a hole in the skull to drain the blood and relieve pressure. If it's caught in time, and the bleeding stops, there's usually no brain injury. They're investigating it now, and the extent of her internal injuries. The best thing to do is stay strong and hope for the best.”

“Have you had patients like this who've survived?” Billy's mother asks.

“Yes,” I lie. “Absolutely.” The truth is, I hardly ever know whether my patients live or die, and often I don't care to think about it.

Now this not knowing, this waiting, is a kind of torture.

In my uniform, I can pretty much walk anywhere in the hospital. A nurse outside the
or
is Janie, who just transferred from the
er
. Janie likes me, a lot. She dates Jon, a medic on my colour code. She has been keeping me apprised of Billy's status.

When I go over to her, she looks pale. She has on her
tell the family
face.

“What's going on, Janie?”

“They just figured out she has a lacerated spleen, with considerable internal bleeding. They're going to operate now. Her pressure's pretty low.”

Dr. Kellerman walks up to Janie, fiddling with his pager. Kellerman happens to be the only surgeon I know in any kind of personal way because of a weird, fluke, nighttime call that happened during
sars
. We'd smoked a cigarette together outside the
er
and he'd broken down. He always remembered me after that. He loaned me books about atheism.

“Dr. K.,” I say, “Hilary is my girlfriend. Can I scrub in and watch? Please. I think it would make a difference if I'm there.”

He looks at me for a moment, and then shrugs. “As long as you can handle it.”

“Yes, I can. I know I can.” I've never been less sure of anything.

“Janie can show you how to scrub in and get sterile. Be quick.”

The total number of things I know about spleens: In healthy people, the spleen helps fight against bacterial infections. It is in the uppermost area of the left side of the abdomen, just under the diaphragm. It is attached to the stomach, left kidney, and colon. I run through this while scrubbing in and pulling on my mask. I feel blinded by the whiteness of the room, the weird
et
-like quality of everything. I palpate my own spleen area in a nervous unconscious motion. I've never, ever wanted a cigarette more.

I look at people gorked out on stretchers every week, people who sometimes die and sometimes don't. On occasion, I've spent the final few moments of a person's life being annoyed with them, or not believing them. Other times, patients have thanked me for my patience and help during their most traumatic moments. I have to say, for all my cockiness, my apathy, my general sense of having seen it all, nothing has prepared me for this.

Billy is so white wherever she isn't banged up. Even the tattoos on her arms appear to have lost colour. The prepping and mechanical motions around her contribute to this feeling. It's as if she isn't in the room.

I was hoping for laparoscopic surgery, tiny keyhole incisions, but I guess Dr. K. needs to assess all the damage inside, so he goes old-school, cutting into the abdomen, finding the spleen and separating it from the surrounding organs. I'm not fascinated or drawn to each odd shape of the human body like I have been before. I worked on cadavers in college, I've seen other surgeries. This is so different. I cannot be objective or curious. I want it to be over, and I want Billy to sit up and say something rude or dirty or mean. I want to go back in time and do shots with her at the bar.

I can't believe I didn't book off early last night. If I had, Billy might not be here right now. If I hadn't held the hand of 105-year-old Helen Harris for close to two hours, I might not be watching Billy's broken spleen land in a metal tray. All the beeping machines are driving me out of my mind with guilt, and the certainty that I might have prevented Billy's pain. I can't even think about the possibility that she won't make it at all.

[ 32 ]

Amy

I remember falling, and staring at car tires passing while I was still on my back. I don't remember the impact, but I do remember seeing Billy in my periphery, landing impossibly hard against the street. Or maybe I just heard the sound of her, a cracking noise, a dividing line drawn with a sudden
thump.
It's hard to know what's a real memory and what I've recreated from what I've been told.

I remember reaching for the cell in my raincoat pocket and dialling 911. The operator tried to keep me on the phone but I hung up when I started seeing white at the edges of my vision. I called Josh instead. I wanted to say goodbye if this was it, because although I was conscious, I had no idea how bad my injuries were. I remembered how Josh used to tell me that dying patients often have no idea, they talk so normally, and then it's lights-fucking-out. I left a message on his voice mail as my vision went completely white.

My sight came back when the medics got there. Two trucks. I was able to talk, to give the attendants all our information, to stay lucid enough until everything was taken care of. I don't even think I felt the pain. The medics who showed up were friends of Josh's. Apparently I tried to joke with them, unaware that the wet I was feeling was blood, unsure why they were moving so fast
. Aren't you supposed to be slow and annoyed all the tim
e?
I'd asked, laughing. No one laughed. I had so many bits.
Don't you like my comedy
?
I'm a real knee-slapper
, I thought, always a cut-up in an emergency. I got only polite smiles, stern faces. I had broken my right leg and dislocated my shoulder. I had a concussion and bruises from where I'd landed.

I couldn't see Billy any more. She was taken away in another ambulance. But I knew it was bad for her. She was a body, not Billy at all. I tried to yell her name,
Billy ! Billy !
But she didn't stir.

“Promise me she's going to be okay, Mark.”

“I'm not sure how's she's doing, Amy. I know they're doing all they can. She's with Diane and Mike, and they're good. Don't worry.”

That's when my pressure must have dropped. The adrenaline that had been keeping me up subsided, and I passed out. I made Mark tell me this story over and over afterwards, trying in vain to remember anything, to figure out if I could have done anything different to change what happened.

E
talk came to the hospital. Roxy punched a cameraman. She told me later that when she was on the way to the police station she was wishing that Billy would somehow sense what had happened and wake up to watch the coverage.
You would be so mad, Billy. That glib fucker showing all your old footage. Wake up and tell him to fuck off on air
!
Tell him to just Come Out!

My parents took me back to North York to take care of me, set me up in the basement on the pullout couch with the giant
tv
and my laptop. But I just stared at my phone, waiting for updates about Billy.

[ 33 ]

Billy

“Hello, is Mr. Barkley there?”

“There is no Mr. Barkley.”

“Mrs. Barkley?”

“No. We don't want to buy anything anyhow.”

Click
. Next name. Similar conversation. Billy is tired. Next call. This guy is obviously masturbating.

“Are you jerking off, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Can you stop?”

“No.”

Click
. Be polite. Your calls are recorded. Stan will have a laugh at that one.

“Hello, Mr. Chris Cameron?”

“Yes.”

“Good evening, sir. My name is Penelope Woodrow, and I'm calling on behalf of Masters Marketing. We are not trying to sell you anything. We're conducting a survey tonight about beer. Are you between the ages of twenty-five and forty-five?”

The name Penelope is really funny when customers get mad and have to yell it. It's immediately funny. Never
not
funny. And it's four syllables. You have to really get mad to yell it. Billy likes it best out of all the names she uses. Sometimes she'll be Lydia Lunch or Nancy Spungeon. Debbie Harry. But Penelope is a polite girl, kind of sweet. Gets the job done.

“Yes.”

“Great. The survey only takes approximately seven minutes of your time.” ( This is a lie. It takes about twelve. )

“I'd answer your survey, Penny, really I would, but you see, I'm dead right now.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“I'm dead. I'm on the other side. I can see the angels, if you get my drift.”

“I could call back later if this is a bad time.” Billy tries to sound serious, but can't stop herself from laughing.

“Oh, you think it's funny? You think it's funny that I'm dead?”

“No, sir. No, of course not. Death is a very serious thing.” Billy doodles
crazy
next to Chris Cameron's name but wants to get some commission, so she takes a breath, tries again.

“How about 7 p.m.? Is that a better time to call?”

“Well, I'll still be dead then. But you, you'll be okay. You're going to wake up.”