Postcards from a Dead Girl (9 page)

“Exhaustion,” Dr. Singh says, avoiding eye contact. He dots
i'
s on his notepad, underlines a few words. He scribbles away, as if working out a complicated math problem, possibly constructing theorems that prove his patients aren't as important as he is. “You need rest,” he concludes.

I don't care for the smell of this place—too much astringent and latex. “I collapse and all you can say is I need rest?”

Dr. Singh looks up briefly, about to explain himself, then continues writing. I'm not thrilled with his diagnosis, but I'm happy I managed to wake up unharmed in the basement and had enough sense to see my doctor without Natalie's assistance.

Dr. Singh finally takes a moment from his jotting. He studies me with an expression of gentle contempt. “The body gets its rest one way or another. You weren't giving it any, so it took it from you. Luckily, you weren't driving.”

“What about my medical history?” I ask, and raise a finger to accentuate my point, but it has no effect. He dismisses my hypothesis with a quick head-shake.

“Your lab work is fine. But your electrolytes were probably down due to dehydration, and so you felt a lack of concentration,
overwhelming tiredness.” He touches his hands together, open-faced, giving me a gift, the answer to this simple problem: “Exhaustion.” He plops down on a little four-wheeled stool to get on my level, and crosses his arms. “When is the last time you took a vacation?”

I open my mouth to explain about vacations and he cuts me off.

“Not a sightseeing vacation. That's work. I mean relaxing. Sitting on a beach for a week, sipping mai tais. Not worrying. Not working. Not exhausting yourself.”

He puts extra emphasis on the word
exhausting
, perhaps so I'll realize that this word and my diagnosis might be somehow related. I decide not to tell him about my recent twenty-five-lap adventure through Soapy Sudz.

“Five days,” he declares. “No work.” He holds up his right hand and wiggles all five fingers. “Relax. Enjoy something. And it's best if you don't drink alcohol. Ignore my mai tai suggestion. Although when you're back in good health you might try a drink or two. I recommend red wine. It's great for your heart.”

Suddenly Dr. Singh is caught up in a flurry of furious writing and violent
i
-dotting, the pen on the verge of ripping the paper. He fires off machine gun
t
-crossings, his brow furrowed hard. Deep creases cut into his forehead, subtle drops of moisture ride his lip. With an aggressive swoop-tap-tap and a loud rip, he hands me the yellow paper. “Remember, everything in moderation,” he says, and quickly exits.

I look at the illegible mess of my prescription. It's strangely enticing. I know the only one who can read it is Candyce, the girl who sometimes works the front desk and is here today, but she may want to punch me in the stomach again after last month's incident.

The thing with Candyce wasn't entirely my fault. The whole date, our dinner together, it was really just a misunderstanding. I met her at Dr. Singh's office before all this CAT-scan business. I'd come after work to get a strange pain in my neck checked out. She seemed so harmless sitting behind her desk, answering calls with her velvet phone voice, dutifully marking down appointments. She was so happy to be busy. I was feeling pretty anxious about my neck, and this nice girl with a dyed blue streak in her hair kept smiling at me between phone calls. And it was soothing. So when I finished with Dr. Singh and got his prescriptions, this same nice girl translated his handwriting for me and answered all my questions about the medicine I'd been prescribed, and assured me I'd be okay. I'd felt good about my visit; she said I was going to be fine.

As I left the building, the sun was low in the sky. The end of another day without Zoe. And then I heard footsteps sneak up behind me and there was Candyce, smiling at me again. She assured me one more time I'd be fine, and asked if I wanted to get something to eat. And I was feeling so fine and assured that I agreed without realizing I'd agreed, hadn't even thought about
it really, what all the implications might be. I was feeling good about my visit, and when she mentioned food, I realized that yes, I was hungry after being so worried all day. So I agreed to go to dinner. This was officially our first date, according to Candyce, or she wouldn't have been so upset, I'm sure of it.

As we walked downtown toward the restaurants, she started joking about how it was our first date and how romantic it was, then laughed at me and punched my shoulder when she saw my confused reaction, and we both laughed and it was all just a little uneven from the get-go.

We stopped at a sub shop. I thought this was a safe choice because to me, sub shop says
extremely casual dining.
She insisted on paying. I insisted we go Dutch. How cute, she said, our first date is Dutch, and then she laid on more of the romantic date business, making sure to roll her eyes so I knew she was kidding.

And we shared small talk, just the basics—if we liked our jobs, our favorite movies, the weather—and I could tell by the way she smiled that she liked me quite a bit, at least quite a bit more than I liked her. I mean, she's really sweet and cute, and like I said, she definitely put me at ease back at the doctor's office. She was very gracious. But then as we were sitting there and things seemed to be mellowing out, she gave me this strange look, like she might burst. She pressed her lips together so they formed a thin white line, and she started to look around as if something needed to exit her body and she needed a target. Then she looked directly at me. And sure enough, she opened her mouth and out came everything: a million words she could not stop.

As abrupt as it was, she managed to categorize most of it. First it was her general history: childhood highlights, family tree, education, dating history, hobbies, employment, and religion. Then it was random things: favorite colors, most embarrassing
moments, fragmented dreams, philosophies on life. She spoke in such an urgent way, I'm not sure if she noticed I hadn't said a word. I did my best to listen.

She said things like:

“I used to like turquoise so much, because it's so blue, and green, together! But then I got seasick in Florida and now I like mauve.”

And,

“People shouldn't lie, they should just be honest, because it saves so much time, and we totally don't have time to lie.”

And,

“I have two brothers but they're both way older than me. I was an accident.”

And,

“I almost died when I was four because I ate a bite of someone's peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich at school, and I'm allergic to peanuts. They had to call an ambulance and everything.”

And,

“I never understood that saying about how if a tree falls in the woods, does it make a noise?”

A tsunami of words. I had no idea it was coming, and it was much stronger and unrelenting than I ever could have expected. But after surviving the first wave, I knew there would be a second wave coming because she pulled out a box of Marlboros and started smoking with the hard exhale of someone who liked to talk while they smoked. I felt trapped, caught off-guard. I had no recourse, no protection.

So I ran.

Only to the restroom, but its tightly confined walls offered me some solace. I locked myself into a stall, enveloped in the silence of the tile floor, the white noise of the automatic flushing urinal
system. It's where I stayed until I felt safe again. About twenty minutes later I came out and Candyce was gone. I felt relieved and terrible all at once. I stepped outside the sub shop's door and there she was, waiting for me on the sidewalk. “Are you feeling okay?” she asked.

“I think so,” I said, and rubbed at my neck.

“Good,” she said, and punched me square in the stomach. “Nothing's wrong with your neck anyway, you big baby.” She turned on her heels, and stomped away, smoking and hissing.

Candyce is mostly a thoughtful girl, with a bit of a cruel streak when wronged. But that's okay because she can read Dr. Singh's handwriting and is willing to translate, and that is a gracious act in and of itself. Besides, she was right to punch me in the stomach. I should never have left her alone. I just panicked.

Sitting before me now, Candyce studies the cryptology of my prescription. Instead of immediately divulging the secret information, she chews on her lip. She looks at me, then back at the prescription, then up at me again. “It says you need to relax,” she says finally. “No work for five days.”

“Thanks,” I say, and gesture toward the note. “Sometimes I don't understand simple things.”

“I know.”

I smile awkwardly.

“Hey! Let's go see a movie!” she says. “That'd be relaxing!” I start to form the words of a lie, but she cuts me off. “Pick me up here at seven,” she says, and slaps the prescription in my hand.

Candyce is actually quite attractive. Aside from the blue streak down the middle of her black hair, she's got a great smile and pretty eyes. She's quirky and perky, which would be good if she were to take Dr. Singh's advice about moderation. There doesn't seem to be a cell of it in all of her attractive, quirky, perky body. Even in a terrifyingly public place like a movie theater.

“She was totally naked and fucking this guy next to me,” she says, in a much higher pitch than she uses at the office. “And they weren't quiet about it either, I mean they're banging three feet away while I'm trying to sleep! And this is supposed to be my vacation! I'm like, shut the fuck up over there, you sluts!”

The movie theater is a classic 1920s movie palace, decorated in an ornate East Indian style. Hundreds of painted elephants parade across the walls. Some of them stare at me, wondering if Candyce will stop saying the word “fuck” while a family with young kids sits behind us, fully engaged by her blue-streaked hair and lack of moderation.

“Fucking unreal!” she screams, or at least it feels like it.

“Candyce,” I whisper, smiling, trying to keep it light. “Please, for the children.” I nod in their direction.

“So I ended up sleeping on the beach, for Christ's sake, on the beach! I spent all my money on a hotel room, and now I have a sore throat, and I'm sleeping on the beach because my roommate who is also supposed to be my friend can't stop—”

“Unbelievable!” I say. “That's not a good friend.”

Candyce must sense my edginess because she sits back in her seat and stops talking. She studies me between sips of her giant soda and handfuls of my popcorn. I'm counting elephants: forty-seven so far.

“Can I ask you something?” she blurts.

“Shoot.” I'm not sure I'm game, but it's an opportunity to redirect her that I can't pass up. She offers me her soda first, and I surprise myself by sipping from her straw. She changes her position then, sits up a little more, attentive to my inevitable answer, honestly curious about how I'll respond. Five more elephants on the ceiling. Big ones. I'm surprised I didn't see them before.

“How did you get so exhausted?” she asks.

I stare at Candyce's hair, the shiny blue streak in particular. A unique hue swirls through it, almost metallic. Inside the blue stripe I see a distant memory of a deep bliss I once knew. It's buried inside a tomb of a room that is so full of something the door refuses to open. The house lights dim and I watch Candyce's eyes turn from blue to gray. She looks dead to me with her eyes agog, and she doesn't blink once until I look away.

Wanderlust Incorporated is busy today. The office noises blend together to create a frustrating soundtrack—soft enough so I can't hear the lyrics, but loud enough so I can't ignore the melody. What there is of it. Voices muttering sales pitches. Fingers tapping keyboards.

I sit upright in front of my computer and try to tune it all out. I've ignored Dr. Singh's prescription and come to work. Somehow it was easier than trying to explain to Steve that I need five days off to relax after my vacation. I watch The Randomizer pick a new number. The cursor blinks in time with the ringing in my headset.

A woman answers with a hello. She sounds nice, friendly. I listen to the dynamics of her voice, the subtle texture, the breathy timbre. She speaks again, more urgently: hello? I listen to her exhale. Is she really alive on the other side of the connection? What is she thinking about? Does it upset her that I'm reaching out to her only to be silent?

She hangs up.

The Randomizer dials again.

Steve left me a welcome-back gift. A nice gesture, albeit a
little odd. It's called a Bug-Out Bob. A little air-filled rubber guy whose eyes, ears, and tongue pop out when you squeeze him. A stress reliever, I suppose. Office gag. It sits on my desk, staring at me with fearful rubber eyes.

The ringing continues in my headset. I stand up to survey my workplace. Over the cubicle walls, I see nothing out of the ordinary. Steve is in his office. Workers are at the copy machine and fax. I sit back down.

A man answers this time. “Hello? Block residence.”

I listen.

“Block residence? Hello?”

I say nothing, but grab the squeezie-doll and tighten my grip.

“Who is this?”

I squeeze my fist hard. The doll's innards become outtards. I release.

“If you can hear me, say something.”

Another squeeze. Eyes and ears and tongue bulge at impossible angles. I keep them bulging. The caller hangs up. I release and return Bug-Out Bob to his post.

I really should be responding to calls I've initiated today. To sell effectively, a certain amount of interaction is required. Interaction equals sales, and sales earn commissions, and commissions pay the bills—something I've been more than a little bit slack about lately. When Mom died, she left us with the house and the mortgage, and when Natalie moved out, I agreed to take it over. She's offered to help if I need it, of course, but I just can't ask her for any more help. Besides, the mortgage is now paid. It's just all those other bills. Well, at least the credit cards, as of late.

The Randomizer continues to dial. I study the postcards on my cubicle walls. What an odd invention, postcards. So unassuming. A little card with a place to write a note.

“Hello?” a voice asks.

Postcards
, I want to say to the caller. One-way only. No return address. Who the hell came up with that anyway?

The caller hangs up without a challenge.

In order to feel productive, I begin to trap my scattered thoughts on Post-it notes. Somehow they feel safer confined to tiny yellow squares. They quickly accumulate, however, creating a pattern of chaos all of their own. Random statements and questions stuck to the table, one edge of each note lifting up and away as if desperately wanting to jump back in the fray.

• Pay bills
  
• Who invented postcards?
  
• Soft-sell, don't be pushy
  
• CAT scan
  
• Remember to Relax
  

I cover the loose ends with another note. And another. And another.