Me Again (26 page)

Chapter 31

B
E NICE TO YOUR PHYSICAL THERAPIST. I advocate this not just because it’s a good practice in general, but because it can also pay off when you need to find out the status of an ICU patient who is not a blood relative.

Leon came through for me, activating a complex network of nurses and administrative personnel – all of whom just happened to be female and attractive, if I know Leon – to ensure that I was updated on Rebecca’s condition. I received several phone calls that evening: true to Big Bob’s prediction, she was moved out of the ICU late that night, and in short order I had her new room number and telephone extension.

I was at the hospital first thing in the morning, wearing what I considered to be my nicest jeans and a black golf shirt adorned with either an alligator or a crocodile – the distinction between those reptiles had not been made clear to me when I was re-learning animal names back in speech therapy. I had it on the highest authority that this clothing combination looked particularly good on me. Okay, the highest authority in this instance was my mother, but I had limited resources in this area.

Even armed with her room number, finding Rebecca was a little tricky. Despite all the time I had spent in this facility, the system behind its numbered floors and rooms still eluded my math-free logic. But I had long ago devised some rudimentary techniques to navigate the hospital’s many levels and corridors. For instance, I had learned that the first digit in a patient’s room number was the number I needed to locate and press on the bank of buttons inside each elevator. From there I’ll admit my system became far less elegant, and I had to simply wander that entire floor, looking for a number that matched the one I had scrawled on the piece of notepaper I clutched in my hand.

Finally I saw the number I had been looking for – 406 – and checked it against the number on the crumpled page. Yes, this should be it. Elated, I approached the room, eager to see Rebecca, and hoping to find her awake. The door was open, so I tentatively stuck my head in.

But if I had hoped to beat Big Bob to the hospital, I was out of luck. To my surprise I found him asleep in the chair next to Rebecca’s bed, an open Bible tented over one of his legs.

Rebecca was asleep as well, but she looked much better now. She was still very pale, but her lips were no longer stained black. And she had considerably fewer tubes and wires plugged into her, which I took as a positive sign.

Not wanting to wake either of them, I quietly took my leave. I took the elevator down to the ground floor, where I decided to brave some of the hospital cafeteria’s coffee, which Rebecca and I were pretty sure was made by straining hot tar through dirty socks. I found an empty table at which to sip the toxic brew, and watched as men and women wearing a pastel rainbow of different-colored scrubs hurried in and out of the cafeteria, some with food, but most simply clutching their own cups of the same vile black fluid I was attempting to coax past my taste buds. This hospital definitely ran on caffeine.

I sat there for a while, spending the time daydreaming, people-watching, and occasionally thinking up clever things to say to Rebecca. Wincing after each sip, I worked my way through as much of my coffee as I could. Then I dumped the remainder in the trash and headed back to the elevator, where I hunted for a button with the number four on it.

Just as the elevator doors were starting to close, somebody called out, “Yo, hold the ’vator!”

I caught the edge of one door with my left hand, and the doors reopened to reveal Mr. Samuels, this time being pushed by a good-natured young orderly we all called “Spike,” in reference to his porcupine-like hairstyle, which I assume required liberal applications of hair care products that were likely strong enough to glue space-shuttle tiles. I stepped back as Spike wheeled Mr. Samuels inside.

“Thanks, dude – could you hit three?” Spike said, as he swiveled the wheelchair around to facilitate their exit.

“No problem,” I said, although I’m sure I took longer to locate the three button than Spike would have. “Hi, Mr. Samuels,” I added, nodding to the old man.

Mr. Samuels nodded back, replying with a perfunctory “Lampshade.”

Spike gave me a knowing look, and I smiled at both of them. The elevator doors closed, and we rode upward in silence. When the number 3 lit up above the elevator doors, Spike caught my eye and said, “Later.” The doors slid open, and as the prickly-haired orderly slowly pushed the wheelchair out into the lobby, Mr. Samuels mumbled something over his shoulder.

It sounded like “Tell the girl.”

“What was that?” I said.

Apparently Spike had heard it, too – he stopped in his tracks and turned the chair to allow Mr. Samuels to face me through the open doors.

The old man’s face, uncooperative though it was, somehow managed to look intensely serious as his eyes found mine. He opened his mouth to speak, then paused. Finally, he said, “Bazooka phonebook. Lemonade.”

Spike chuckled, and said, “Oh, well. We better get a move on, Mr. S.”

With that he began to steer the wheelchair to the left, but Mr. Samuels held my gaze as long as he could. As the doors closed I heard his voice faintly repeat, “Lemonade.” Then the elevator continued its ascent.

* * * * *

Back on Rebecca’s floor, my memory of her room’s position relative to the nurses’ station made it much easier to find this time. I walked in quietly to find Big Bob still asleep, snoring softly in his chair on the opposite side of the bed. But Rebecca was awake, and lifted her head off her pillow when she saw me.

“Hi, Jonathan.” Her voice was still a parched whisper, but she seemed much more alert. I hurried over to her.

“Hi, Rebecca,” I said, forgetting the far more clever opening line I had rehearsed downstairs. “How are you feeling?”

I leaned forward, placing one hand on the rail beside her bed. Rebecca reached out with her one tube-free hand and touched my wrist.

“I just woke up, but I feel a lot better than I did yesterday,” she said. “I’m really glad to see you.”

“You too.” Suddenly self-conscious, I stood upright, and gestured towards her sleeping husband. “Big Bob is here,” I said, stating the obvious.

“I know. He spent the night last night. He was worried about me.”

“So was I.”

Rebecca closed her eyes and nodded. “I know.”

“Anyway, I met him yesterday. While you were sleeping.” I felt obligated to comment, so I added, “He seems nice.”

As if on cue, Bob stirred briefly, then his eyes opened abruptly and locked on mine. I was suddenly very glad Rebecca was no longer touching my arm.

Bob scrunched his face up, trying to blink away the sleep. I decided to try to launch this conversation, with hopes of preempting any negative reaction on his part to finding me once again at his wife’s bedside.

“Hi Bob,” I said. “I just came by to see how Rebecca was doing. Wow, did you spend all night in that chair?”

Bob grunted, and then set about the task of unfolding his large frame from the battered Naugahyde chair. He stretched himself this way and that with an alarming series of pops and groans. Then rearing to his full height, he reached a hand over the bed and said, “How you doin’, Jon.”

Resigned to another crippling handshake, I gritted my teeth and extended my hand, relieved to feel it enveloped in a grip powered by slightly less testosterone than our initial encounter.

“I’m fine, thanks,” I said. “I just—"

But Bob had already let go of my hand and was bending down to greet Rebecca.

“Beck, honey – you’re up! How are you feeling? Can I get you anything?”

I’ll admit, the intensity – and apparent sincerity – of Big Bob’s solicitousness towards Rebecca made me feel a bit loutish for having held him in such low regard. But only a bit. My loathing for him was quickly rekindled when Rebecca smiled at him, making me aware that my capacity for jealousy had apparently not been impaired in any way by my brain damage.

Bob and Rebecca fell into a dialog covering how she felt, how she had slept,
where
he had slept, and how sweet he was for having slept there.

I felt simultaneously superfluous and invisible. Stretching my mathematical capabilities to their utmost, I found myself finally comprehending the adage maintaining that while two may be company, three was definitely a crowd.

“Um, I can come back later,” I said, turning to leave.

“No, wait.”

Sadly, it was Big Bob’s voice, not Rebecca’s. I turned to face him.

“Listen, Jon,” he said, “I could really stand to get into the office for a couple of hours. If you could stick around and keep an eye on things here, I’m sure Becky would like that. And you’d be doing me a major solid.”

“Well, I—"

“Please.” This time it was Rebecca who spoke. She looked up at me with the beginnings of a shy smile. “I’d really appreciate it if you stayed,” she said hoarsely. “It’s really nice that you came to check on me.”

“No problem,” I said. “I’ll be happy to stay.”

“Outstanding,” Big Bob said. He began rounding up his keys, cell phone, and other personal effects, then leaned forward and kissed his wife on the cheek.

“I’ll be back by lunchtime, babe. Just call me on my cell if you need anything, okay?”

Rebecca nodded, and Bob lumbered towards the door. He clamped a heavy hand on my shoulder as he passed me. “Thanks, man,” he said. Then he was out the door, punching buttons on his cell phone as he walked.

I turned to find Rebecca smiling at me.

“Hey, you,” she said.

“Hey yourself.”

She nodded towards the now vacant chair. “Why don’t you sit down?”

“Thanks.” I made my way around the bed and eased into the chair, still warm from having served as Big Bob’s bed the night before. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, thanks,” she said. “I’m definitely not ready to eat or drink anything. But this IV is giving me so much fluid that I keep having to pee.”

“Oh,” I observed insightfully. “Um, do you need me to get you a... a bedpan?”

Rebecca made a choking noise that I then realized was actually a laugh, and said, “No, that will
not
be necessary. I can get up and go to the bathroom all by myself, thank you.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said.

“Anyway,” she said, “sorry about kind of excluding you just now. You know, when Bob and I were talking. He’s still pretty freaked out, and frankly I think he’s watching for any signs that I might still be a suicide risk.”

Suicide risk
were two very unpleasant words to hear coming from her lips, but they jolted me back to reality.

“Um, are you?”

“A suicide risk?” She shook her head. “No. But I still had to answer a lot of questions last night, before they moved me here.”

“Questions?”

“A psychiatric evaluation. I had to convince some social worker that I wasn’t suicidal. Otherwise they’d have me on what they call ‘suicide watch,’ or maybe even move me to some psych facility or something. It was pretty humiliating. And kind of scary, like if I said the wrong thing, they might take me away and put me in a padded cell.”

“I guess you didn’t say the wrong thing.”

“Well, they were looking for signs of problems that I’m not really having. Stuff like drugs, spousal abuse – they interviewed Bob, too, which was even more humiliating. But the lady was nice, and the way she summed it up was that after my brain damage, I was
having problems fitting in
.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle quietly. “Now that’s a problem I’m familiar with.”

“I know,” she said, with just the faintest trace of a smile. “I figured you could relate to that.”

Looking around the room I said, “Well, I don’t see any padding. Looks like you convinced her.”

Rebecca smirked at me. “Yeah, apparently I did.”

Then her face grew more serious. “But I wasn’t lying. For one thing, I don’t want to die, and I don’t think I ever really did.”

She grimaced. “And I
never
want to feel as sick as I did after the stomach pump. God, that charcoal stuff was nasty – I can still taste it.”

“It wasn’t the best color on you, either,” I said. “I prefer you in lighter shades of lipstick.”

This got a smile, but then it faded.

“This is really embarrassing,” she said. “You keep seeing me at my absolute worst. Saying stupid things. Doing stupid things.”

“That doesn’t matter to me. What I care about is that you’re okay. I’m just so glad Bob found you in time. If he hadn’t...”

My voice trailed off. Not liking this conversational tangent, I said, “Besides, you’ve certainly seen
me
at my worst. I couldn’t even stand up when you first met me. And when I talked, it was like slow motion back then.”

“Plus you were unbelievably skinny,” Rebecca added helpfully.

“Yes, let’s not forget that,” I said. “Perish the thought.”

I was hoping my attempt at banter would cheer her up, but she scowled and said, “But you didn’t do anything stupid. You didn’t try to kill yourself.”

Instinctively I put my hand on her arm. “I’m just thankful you didn’t do a very good job of that.” Maybe touching her had emboldened me, because without thinking I went on. “And you’re not the only person who does stupid things. I did some unbelievably stupid things.”