Thicker Than Water (5 page)

Why are there no clear colors in a hospital?
Kia wondered. The uniforms had identifiable colors—the whites, the blues, the greens, the aggressively cheerful prints on the nurses' and aides' tops. But in the rooms, the wood wasn't real wood color—it had no depth, the hard plastic cups and barf buckets were a weird shade of maybe-mauve, the covers on the food trays weren't really white—not because they were dirty but because they'd
never
been white. It was all approximation of color, nothing intense, nothing vivid.

“Did you have a nice time yesterday?” Mom asked. Kia could see the effort she was making to form words.

“Yeah. I hung with Aaron and Carol,” Kia said. She scanned the room. Her eyes lit on a newspaper. She stood and grabbed it from the low radiator along the window. “Is this today's?” she asked.

Her mother nodded slowly.

“Haven't seen it yet,” Kia said. She sat on the radiator. “Should I read it to you?”

The corner of her mom's mouth lifted and she nodded again.

If she read, Kia didn't have to make eye contact. If she read, her mom wouldn't have to speak. If she read, she wouldn't have to think of something to say.

Kia made it through the entire Arts section, the front page, and was starting on local news, worrying that Saturday's newspaper didn't have enough sections. Sunday's would be better. She could probably read the Sunday paper for nearly a week.

A sharp knock came on the open door and a group of white coats entered. They bypassed The Roommate and yanked aside the curtain.

Kia stood up. “Lunch,” she declared. “Didn't eat much breakfast,” she said to her mom, ignoring the stethoscope adjustments, the IV readings, the clipboard clacking. “I'm starved.”

The relief on her mother's face told Kia that she'd done the right thing, made the right move. Kia had had the unfortunate experience of being present for rounds before. The King Doctor—almost always a man—would ask one of the Baby Docs (or Ducks as Kia thought of them; they really were like a flock—quack quack quack) to state the presenting symptoms. They'd launch into every possible scenario—all of them worst case as far as Kia was concerned—every torturous implication, horrible possibility, devastating course of treatment and its consequences, without any indication of being aware that not only were they rattling off gruesome details across her mother's weakened body but also doing so in front of her freaking-out daughter. Sometimes they'd remember to ask her to leave, but not so much anymore.

They were always in such a hurry. Sometimes Kia could barely get out before they started in.
What's the rush?
Kia wanted to ask.
The people lying in these beds aren't
going
anywhere.
Then Kia realized—maybe the urgency was the fear that a patient could die before the Baby Docs finished their homework. How would that affect the grade curve?

“Are you coming back?” her mother whispered from the bed.

“Yeah, of course. Just a lunch break.” Kia hated the pleading look in her mom's eyes that she didn't have the strength to cover. “I'd offer to bring you back something, but that seems like cruel and unusual punishment.”

Mom smiled a half-smile and Kia booked out of the room as King Doc said, “And now ...”

Four more hours,
Kia told herself as she headed down the corridor to the elevator.
You skipped yesterday,
she thought,
it's the least you can do.

She skidded to a stop at the elevator banks. A little kid, probably about eight years old, sat in a wheelchair, an IV pole being handled by his mother, who seemed to be expending inordinate amounts of energy keeping it together. Kia spun around and took the stairs, the clomping sound of her heavy boots echoing in the empty stairwell.

She pushed through the door at basement level where the cafeteria was and found herself face-to-face with a bulletin board crowded with notices.
“Da Vinci Code
Reading Club Meeting Wed. in the 3rd Floor Lounge,” “Piano Recital on Fridays at 4 p.m.—Reserve Now!” “Storytime Ages 4—8,” library hours, religious services, lectures, classes, notice after notice after notice announcing activities and events. There were ATM and stamp machines in the lobby leading into the cafeteria. Fast-food franchises, vending machines, fresh sushi, meat grilled in front of you. Kia picked up a brown plastic tray and stood in front of the dessert station, staring stupidly at a chocolate cake surrounded by cups of Jell-O.

You never had to leave this building, Kia realized. The hospital was a self-contained world. She swallowed, her throat dry. An alternate world to which she and her mother had valid passports.

“You taking the last piece?” a voice behind Kia asked.

Startled, Kia took a step away from the dessert case and whipped her head around. A short girl with beaded braids and very dark skin stood in front of her. She looked about Kia's age, with a similar sense of style: black leather jacket over black vest over black leggings with a black skirt that only barely covered her butt. Her (black) boots had pointy toes, and she wore five silver star-shaped earrings in the ear that Kia could see. The other was covered by braids.

“What?” Kia asked.

The girl's enormous almond-shaped eyes focused on Kia's nose stud. “Excellent turquoise. Like the setting.”

“Thanks,” Kia said. “Same on your stars.”

“So are you? Taking the last piece of cake?” the girl asked. “If not, I got it. Nothing else too edible in this place.”

Kia stepped aside. “All yours. It was the Jell-O that held my fascination.”

The girl shook her head. “I don't see how that can qualify as food. It's made from horses' hooves or something.”

“Really?”

The girl shrugged. “That's what I heard. But how can something so jiggly come from something as solid as a horse's hoof?” She grinned. “Modern science. Of course, we're at the epicenter of modern science,” she added, scanning the cafeteria. “Or so all the white-coated freaks would want you to think.”

“Yeah.” Kia looked down at her empty tray. She could feel the girl's doe eyes on her a moment. Then the girl reached past Kia into the dessert case and pulled out the cake.

“I'm calling myself Hecate these days,” the girl said. She placed the cake in the center of her tray. “My mom says it's a phase.”

“What was it before?” Kia asked, somehow finding herself following the black-clad sprite to the coffee kiosk.

Hecate shot her a grin. “If I told you that, I'd have to kill you. Let's just say Mom was in her own phase when I was born.”

Kia laughed and poured herself coffee from the thermos at the kiosk. It had a Starbucks logo on it. Just like the outside world. She shot half-and-half into her cup and decided coffee was all she could handle right now.

“Hospital shit does a number on the appetite, doesn't it?” Hecate asked, leading Kia to the cashier. “All I ever want is cake. I think it's the lighting in here. The lack of daylight. Oh yeah, not to mention the trauma and emotional stress. And the lovely views.”

Kia looked around at the pale faces made gray in the fluorescent lighting. The IV poles. The doctors checking their beeping pagers. The tear-stained family members holding hands. The animated conversations of hospital personnel and the hyper quality of everyone else who wasn't either crying or staring into space.

“At least we don't have to make reservations,” Kia said. “And there's no dress code.”

“And it is an exclusive club,” Hecate said. “True, no velvet ropes, but admittance by membership only. Oh, lucky us.”

Kia smiled at Hecate. “I—I think I'm actually hungry,” she said. “Save me a seat.”

She went and ordered a minestrone from the soup station and made herself a salad. When she got back to the table, Hecate had already devoured the cake and was pouring sugar into her coffee.

Kia slid into the seat and dug into her salad with a plastic fork. She felt Hecate's eyes studying her.

“You ever go to Twilight Hours?” Hecate asked.

Kia shook her head. “Is that a store?”

“A club night. Wednesdays. At a place on Eighteenth Street.”

“Oh. I'm not twenty-one.”

“Really?” Hecate shrugged and grinned. “Me either. Well, that's what fake IDs are for. And some places let you in if you're eighteen and just don't give you drink tickets. They spin some seriously good discs. Goth, dark wave. No cover. Mixed crowd.”

“Sounds fun.” Kia didn't add that she wasn't eighteen either. Seventeen was close enough, right?

“You should check it out sometime. I thought maybe I'd seen you there, but I think it might have been from here. You've been coming here long?” Suddenly her eyes widened and Hecate snorted. “Wait. Sorry.” She gasped, trying to stop herself from laughing. “That sounds like a pickup line. Hey, baby, come here often? Like, Cancerville is such an excellent place to hook up.”

“They seem to have everything else here; why not a singles scene?” Kia suggested, grinning at Hecate.

“Stop,” Hecate ordered, still laughing. “My mind is going in all the wrong places.”

Kia giggled. “So, why are you here?” she asked. “Or, I guess, who ...”

Hecate took a swig of her coffee. “Grandfather. Prostate cancer. He's really cool. My dad left around the time my little brother died, so my mom and I moved into Gramps's place.”

Kia nodded. She took a few spoonfuls of soup to cover the silence.

“You?” Hecate asked.

“My mother.” She took another spoonful of soup before pushing it away, suddenly aware of its canned, institutional flavor.

“My brother was real little when he died,” Hecate said. “A long time ago. But it changed everything forever. The way things do, you know?”

“I do know,” Kia said. She took a swig of water. “I had to move in with my dad. I had gotten used to the divorce and to hardly seeing him and now he's the parental unit again. All of it.”

“Parents get weird when serious shit happens,” Hecate said. “They're so unpredictable.” She held her coffee cup at an odd angle, as if she wasn't aware she was holding it anymore. Her voice was a little far away. “When something happens in your family, it sucks you out of your own life, like you've disappeared into a black hole or something. And it isn't even your own crap that puts you there.”

Kia nodded. “That's exactly how I've been feeling.”

She wanted to ask Hecate what her brother died of and if her gramps was supposed to get better but didn't know how. Especially since it didn't seem fair to ask but not tell herself. So instead she said, “Are you in school?”

“Not this year. I'm working to save enough for college.” She stood up. “You done? I want to pop outside for a smoke.”

Kia swigged her now-tepid coffee and stood up. They tossed their trash and placed the trays on the counter. For a small person, Hecate covered ground quickly, so that even with her much-longer legs Kia had to work to keep up with her. Hecate also seemed to know the ins and outs of the exits, making Kia wonder how long she had been coming to the hospital or if she had simply explored more territory than Kia had.

They came out a side door and leaned against the wall. Hecate pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from her bag and lit up. She shut her eyes as she took a long, deep inhale. Kia watched the trail of smoke break apart in the cooling air.

Hecate opened her eyes. She held up the cigarette. “You want one?” she asked.

Kia shook her head.

“I guess I should quit,” Hecate said, looking at the cigarette. “But so far I haven't figured out a good enough reason.”

She took another drag and then tipped her head toward the three white-coated women huddled together smoking near the edge of the building.

“Check that out,” she said. “Gotta love the irony. They work with cancer patients all day long and still smoke. Talk about living life on the edge.”

“Or having a death wish,” Kia said, and immediately wanted to smack herself or take back her words.

Hecate shrugged. “Either way, you can't say they're not making an informed choice.”

“And it is their choice,” Kia said. Ugh. Now she sounded all PC or something.
Shut up now.

Hecate checked her watch. “I've got to go. I have to get to work.”

“Where do you work?” Kia asked.

“NightTimes, over on St. Marks,” Hecate said. “You should come by. I'm there most days.”

“Okay,” Kia said, glad that Hecate seemed interested in making friends with her.

Hecate dropped her cigarette to the pavement and ground it out with the pointy toe of her boot. Then she rummaged in her bag and pulled out a dark blue postcard, which she held out to Kia.

Kia took the card. It showed a picture of a woman in vaguely medieval dress, with long flowing hair. Very Pre-Raphaelite. The woman had a dreamy expression on her face. Behind her, a striking man held her hair away from her neck and looked as if he were about to bite her. Ornate black letters said Darkness Reigns Every Sunday Night across the top. On the bottom was an address.

“What's this?” Kia asked.

“Vampire night in Brooklyn,” Hecate said. “It's fun. Awesome DJ, only five bucks cover.” She cocked her head at Kia and smiled conspiratorially. “And they don't check IDs too carefully. I'll be there after I get off work. Things don't really get started until around eleven anyway.”

Kia was going to ask what a “vampire night” was but after the cigarette thing decided that the best thing to do would be to nod and smile. “Thanks.” She slipped the flyer into her boot.