The Book of Living and Dying (7 page)

The hallways were empty, the students already in class. Sarah felt exhausted and the pain in her head was growing. Her feet dragged as she climbed the seemingly endless marble stairs to the third floor. Stair after stair. How many stairs had she climbed in her life? There had been many. Maybe enough to climb to the moon. She used to count them, when counting was all she had to keep herself sane.

The Terrace General Hospital had 29 terrazzo stairs between floors, for a total of 87 steps—minus landings—to reach the chronic care ward in the west wing on the third floor. There were two sets of elevators, only one of which worked on a regular basis, the second havingfallen into disrepair when budget cuts apparently prevented regular maintenance from being performed. It took 162 steps to reach the stairwell from the main floor lobby, with an additional 412 steps and three right turns to reach the wire-reinforced glass doors leading to the chronic care wing. Once through the doors, a total of 69 steps were necessary to reach the nurses’ station, 94 to reach the showers, 108 to reach the linen closet and 258 to reach Room 319, with another 17½ steps to reach the bed from the doorway, the half step a compromise between the floor and the edge of the bed. Room 319 was a single-occupancy facility, a rarity in chronic care wards, with a wide dusty window overlooking the hospital atrium—a square of weeds and forgotten flower beds, no seats. Rooms facing south overlooked the cemetery.

Donna was waiting for her in the hall outside of class, striking a pose against the green-painted cinderblock wall, brown plaid kilt cut just below her crotch, black boots to the
knee, one foot kicked up behind her buttock. Sarah walked past like she didn’t know her.

“Don’t even think about it, Wagner. You’re late anyway. You’ll just get a detention.”

Sarah sighed. “Why do you torment me so?”

“If I didn’t, who would? Come on. The Queen’s calls.”

Sarah didn’t want to go. She wanted to see Michael. But Donna was right. She would only get a detention if she entered class this late. Donna tromped down the school steps, towing Sarah along behind her.

“Man, did you miss out last night,” she gloated as they reached the street. “A bunch of us went to hear this great band at the Southside Hotel.”

“Who’s a bunch of us?”

“Peter and some friends from out of town.”

“Oh, right, Peter.” Sarah didn’t have the energy to fake enthusiasm.

“But these guys show up,” Donna continued, “and they’re making like they own the place, you know, ordering all these drinks and taking up all the good seats, stealing chairs from our table, talking big, and the next thing you know, Peter’s friend grabs one of these guys and nearly splits his head open with a head butt, and then everybody’s fighting and smashing beer bottles.”

Sarah looked skeptical. “Peter?”

“You should have seen him!” Donna said, becoming more animated. “I’m just sitting there when the waiter throws his tray across the room and slams these two guys right on top of our table. I jump out of the way and nearly get suckered by this freak, but Peter dives on the guy and punches him out.”

“Sounds like a great time.”

“Don’t be a bitch. It was a riot.”

“Literally … I can’t see Peter fighting.”

“Oh, he can fight,” Donna assured her. “There’s lots of stuff you don’t know about him.”

“I can live with that.” Sarah leaned on the door to the coffee shop and stumbled inside to the thick smell of deep-fried food and the haze of cigarette smoke. Moving to their usual booth at the back of the shop, she dumped her knapsack on the seat, then squeezed in beside it. Donna sat across from her.

“Okay, so give me the scoop,” she said.

“What do you mean?” Sarah asked. She searched Donna’s face for a clue as to what was coming.

“Come on, Wagner. You’ve been out to lunch lately, daydreaming and getting all pissy about everything. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Sarah said, shrugging. “It’s this headache. It won’t go away.” She dug for the aspirin in her bag.

“Go see a doctor,” Donna suggested, producing a bottle of Advil and tossing it across the table.

Sarah scowled. “No! No doctors. I’ll never see another doctor again, I don’t care what’s wrong with me. They can’t help anybody.” She shook two Advil from the bottle and slid it back to Donna. “Thanks,” she said in a calmer voice.

Donna dropped the bottle in her purse and tapped a couple of cigarettes from her pack. She lit both at once with her Zippo and handed one to Sarah. Sarah took a deep drag, exhaled appreciatively and looked around the shop. There were several people scattered around at tables and in booths. Dishes clattered in the kitchen as Nick called out orders, coffee cups settled into saucers, lighters sparked, cigarettes glowed, newspapers rustled beneath the low groan of comfort while a middle-aged waitress skimmed
adeptly along with dishcloth and coffee carafe synchrony, her dirty blond hair and expression moulded to withstand the smoke and grease and demands of the patrons. Sarah settled back into the booth. It was a relief to be there after all, playing her part in this small theatre of life. Taking another long drag on her cigarette, she slowly exhaled. “I’m sorry, Donna. I guess I’ve been freaking out.”

Donna considered her through hooded eyes. “Over what?”

“I don’t know.” Sarah picked the foil from the cigarette pack and began folding it into smaller and smaller triangles. “I think I’m seeing things.”

“Does it start with an
M
and end with an L?” Donna smiled patronizingly behind her cigarette.

“I’m serious,” Sarah said, furrowing her brow. “I’m kind of scared.”

“Scared of what? You haven’t told me anything yet.”

Sarah looked into Donna’s face. Beneath the shock of short black hair, her eyes shone green and clear, her unnaturally large pupils the size of nickels in the light of the diner. It gave her a nocturnal, otherworldly quality—almost trance-like, Sarah thought, raising the cigarette to her lips. As she did this, she felt a warm fluid run down her finger. It exploded in a brilliant red starburst onto the table.

“Sarah, your nose!”

Sarah drew her hand from her face. Her fingers were crimson with blood. “Shit.”

Donna reached for the napkins and pulled a handful from the dispenser. “Here, pinch your nose with these.”

Dropping her cigarette in the ashtray, Sarah grabbed the napkins from Donna’s hand and crammed them over her nose, tilting her head back.

“God, that was weird,” Donna said, pulling more napkins
from the dispenser. “Maybe you should go to the bathroom and check it out.”

The napkins blossomed red as Sarah slid across the booth. In the bathroom, she removed them cautiously and inspected her nose. The bleeding seemed to have stopped. There was a smear of blood above her lip and her fingers were sticky with it. Turning on the tap, she rubbed her hands vigorously under the water, then leaned over and repeatedly splashed her face. She did this until the red-tinted water ran clear down the drain. Using a wad of paper towels, she dabbed her face delicately, afraid her nose would start to bleed again if she used too much force. When she was satisfied that the bleeding had stopped, she opened her compact and applied powder heavily. She surveyed her face in the mirror. Her skin was pale and malnourished looking. Dark circles like tea-coloured stains had crept into the hollows below her eyes. She looked tired and worn out. And somehow thinner. Why hadn’t she noticed that before? It was a good thing she hadn’t gone to school today. What if the nose bleed had happened in front of the whole class? In front of Michael? She found her lipstick and dotted some on her cheeks, blending it into her skin. At least she wouldn’t look so pale now. After fussing with her hair for a bit, she threw the blood-stained napkins in the garbage and went back out. She was going to tell Donna about John.

“Hey, look who I found,” Donna said, grabbing Sarah by the hand and drawing her into the booth. Peter smiled happily back at her.

“What a coincidence,” Sarah mumbled. She forced a smile. “Hey, Peter.”

“I was just telling her all about the fun she missed last night,” Donna said to Peter.

“How’s your nose?” Peter asked.

Sarah drew her hand self-consciously to her face. “Oh, it’s fine,” she said, frowning at Donna.

Donna laughed, waving her off with her cigarette. “It happens every twenty-eight days like clockwork.”

“Big party at my place,” Peter reminded Sarah. “You’re gonna be there, right?”

“Of course she is,” Donna jumped in. “We’re coming together, if you know what I mean.” Donna and Peter snickered conspiratorially.

They had the same kind of teeth, Sarah noticed, jagged and pointy, like a couple of sharks, or grinning jack-o’- lanterns.

He turned to her. “Bring your guitar, Sarah. We can play a few tunes.”

“Uh … I don’t know, Peter …” she said, tapping absently at the numbers on the small jukebox on the table. She spun the dial and watched as the music selections fell one on top of the other in a metallic fan.

“Come on. You’re great,” Peter persisted.

Donna winked at Sarah. “That’s what all the boys say.”

Just then, the bell on the door jangled angrily and a dozen or more students burst loudly into the coffee shop wearing matching red-and-white-striped jerseys with “FEWD” across the chest.

“Oh God,” Donna spat. “What are they doing here?” She glared across the diner as the group took up several booths and started yelling out orders to the waitress. Snatching a quarter from a pile of change on the table, Donna leaned over and forced the coin into the jukebox, then punched a number in, cranking the volume knob as high as it would go. Nirvana’s “Territorial Pissings” screamed out. “It’s pricks
like that that give us students a bad name,” she said with a feigned British accent. She grabbed the Zippo and began snapping it aggressively, open and shut.

“They’re not all bad,” Peter said.

Sarah shot Donna a pointed look:
What do you think of him now?

Nick sauntered up to the table, apparently wearing the same filthy apron, his belly seemingly bigger. “You order or you leave.”

“When’s it due?” Donna snorted into her hand. She smacked another cigarette from the pack and lit it. Still affecting the accent, she spoke through a cloud of smoke. “I’ll have toast and marmalade with a spot of coffee. Oh, and Nick, old man … could you be a dear and tell that group of rowdies to keep it down over there? We’re trying to have a conversation.” She raised her eyebrows and picked at her teeth with her black-polished nails.

“Whatta you want?” Nick said, ignoring Donna’s request and pointing his pen at Peter and Sarah.

“Same.”

“Same.”

Their orders arrived, and Sarah sipped the morning away with her coffee. There would be no seeing Michael today, she concluded, not with Donna on duty. She would have to hang with her throughout the day and into the night. Maybe even Peter, too. She would bide her time until she could slip away, then sneak over to Michael’s later. She definitely didn’t want to go home, not with John potentially waiting there. But she would have to put in a good show to avoid suspicion or Donna might follow her around all night. She knew she could wait it out. She’d done it often enough before.

Hospital time was different than ordinary time. It had landmarks, but no destinations. Morning meds, 7:00 am. Breakfast, 7:30 am. Tray pickup at 9:15. Sponge bath and fresh linen, 10:30. Noon meds, 11:00 am. Lunch, 12 noon, and so on, until lights out at 9:00 pm. It was the nighttime that got especially difficult, with its liquid edges and confused intentions. Nighttime was for sleeping, though sleep rarely arrived to claim those delinquent hours. And so it was spent listening and waiting, the minutes placed end to end and stretching out toward eternity.

“So what do you want to do?” Peter asked.

Donna looked at him suggestively. “What are you offering?”

“We could go to my place.”

“And …”

“Blow a few, if you want …”

“Definitely want.”

“What about you, Sarah?” Peter asked.

“Oh, she’s in,” Donna answered for her.

Sarah lowered her eyes. “Yeah, sure, let’s go.”

“Okay,” Peter said, a little too excitedly. Pulling a wad of money from his pocket, he made a big show of picking up the tab, peeling off several bills with quick snaps.

Trying to earn brownie points, Sarah thought, disdainfully.

The three of them got up from the table and walked across the shop together.

“Hey, look! Candy canes!” Donna chimed as they moved past FEWD territory.

Insults and wadded-up napkins flew through the air.

“Hey, Peter! Whatta you doing with that scag?” someone called out.

“Get bit,” Donna called back, flicking her cigarette butt at one of the tables.

“Thanks, Donna.” Sarah pulled up the collar on her jean jacket and dodged a napkin bomb. She pushed open the door and stepped into the autumn afternoon, the air refreshingly crisp and clear after the smoky haze of the coffee shop.

Donna came shrieking out to the sidewalk. Lifting her kilt, she mooned the coffee shop window. “That’s the most they’ll get tonight.”

“Doubtful,” Sarah muttered. She stood with Donna in front of the shop while Peter hung back, talking to some friends. Donna knocked on the glass, made a face at him. He raised his hand, indicating he’d only be a moment. Donna knocked louder, until Nick’s irate face appeared in the doorway.

“You get outta here!” he yelled.

“You get outta here!” Donna yelled back, copying his accent.

“Jeez, Donna.” Sarah shook her head.

Nick jabbed his arm rudely in the air. Donna did the same until Peter squeezed past the gesticulating Nick and out the door. He put his arms around Donna and Sarah, Donna talking loudly, singing, making people look. Peter squeezed Sarah’s shoulder, laughing.
Dream on.
Sarah turned away just in time to see Michael stepping out of the arcade at the end of the block. He squinted down at her from the doorway and watched them walk by. Watched her walk by. Their eyes met, his opinion obvious. Donna grabbed the back of Peter’s pants as they passed and stuck her tongue out at Michael. Sarah averted her eyes to the sidewalk; she’d have to explain later. Tugging the hat playfully from Sarah’s head, Donna put it on her own as Sarah squirmed to get away from Peter, who only pulled her closer.