Wetlands (15 page)

She rinses the grapes for quite some time in running water.

As she’s rinsing them she says that she has the feeling they haven’t been washed anyway, that they might still have
toxic pesticides on them. They’re still covered with that fuzzy, white film. A sure sign of having not been washed. Oh, please!

I don’t say anything. I’m screaming inside, though. This idiotic notion of washing pesticides off fruit and vegetables is the biggest joke there is. My dad taught me. These days you learn it in school, too. In chemistry. The chemicals that are sprayed on produce to keep away vermin and fungus are so strong that they penetrate the skin of tomatoes and grapes. You can wash them until your fingers shrivel. Nothing comes off. If you don’t want to eat pesticides with your fruit and vegetables, you shouldn’t buy them at all. You’re not going to cheat the poison industry with a few seconds of running water. I never wash fruit and vegetables. I don’t think it removes any of the poisons.

The other reason the nurse feels the urgent need to wash my property is that people like her always think the floor is extremely filthy because people walk on it. In the imagination of these people, there must be a tiny particle of dog shit every few inches. That’s the worst contaminant a hygiene fanatic can imagine. If kids pick things up from the ground and put them in their mouths they’re always told: Be careful, there could be dog crap on that. Even though it’s highly unlikely there’s dog crap anywhere on it. And what if there is? What would be so bad about that? Dogs eat canned meat. The canned meat is turned into canned-meat-crap in
their intestines and then lands on the street. Even if I ate spoonfuls from a pile of dog crap, I’m sure nothing would happen to me. So if a whiff of a trace of an unlikely particle of dog crap that somehow made its way into my hospital room sticks to a grape there beneath my bed and winds up in my mouth, nothing’s going to happen.

She’s finally finished with her nonsense.

I have my work materials back, washed against my will. I don’t thank her.

“Could you please ask whether I can have some stronger pills or can take two at a time? What I’ve got isn’t stopping the pain.”

She nods and leaves.

I’m pissed off as I finish up my work. These stupid hygiene freaks drive me crazy. They are so unscientifically superstitious about bacteria. This pain is also driving me crazy. But I’ve hit upon my next good idea.

I know what I’m going to
do now. I’m going to have a bowel movement. I can’t stand up. I’ll force myself. I need to make sure I can take care of myself. Which I normally don’t have to worry about. Better to try to take my first bowel movement after emergency surgery here in a controlled environment near doctors than wherever I’ll end up doing it if I’m discharged. I’m all out of sorts. I’m dizzy.

I’ll make myself do it. It can’t be that difficult. Maybe I’m still numb from the operation. It’s possible that the pain will just keep getting worse from now on. In which case I’d rather try now. Now or never. Bite the bullet, Helen, and do it. And given what I’ve eaten in the last few days—granola as hard as wood chips—I should be ready to drop one. Off to the bathroom. First I need to get rid of the plug. What they manage to stuff up there is very long. I position myself in the reliable spread-legged stance above the bowl and think of the pain I felt when I ripped myself open. This is nothing by comparison. It works. I manage it. I do it well. In a death-defying feat, I push everything past the stitches and I’m home free. I don’t need to tell anyone I was able to
do this. But it’s good for me to know. I’m one step closer to recovery. If I do end up abandoning my plan for my parents, this will have been a big waste of strength and suffering. We’ll see. I rinse myself off and pat myself dry. Robin was right. It’s a lot better than wiping with toilet paper. All the things he knows. We’re a good match.

I go back over to the bed and stand next to it.

I have to do something. Have to. Doesn’t matter what. The main thing is not to think about my parents or the pain in my asshole. My hands are shaking. I’m all tense. I wipe cold sweat from my brow. Cold sweat is creepy. The only other time you experience it is right before you faint. Little death. Aren’t men’s orgasms called that, too? Or is it something you say about animals? Which ones? I can’t think straight. Not an enjoyable experience. This. Everything. I climb back into bed. I put all the trail-mix sculptures in my lap. I twist around so I can reach the back edge of the metal nightstand. I carefully lift up the bottle cap of tears and move it gingerly across the surface of the nightstand. I put it down on the edge closest to me, so I can easily reach it, and dunk the tip of my pointer finger in the salty water. I let a drop fall from my finger into the cut in each stuffed grape. I work carefully, as if my finger were an eyedropper. I have to conserve my tears so there’s enough to go around. I already know to whom I’ll offer them. I manage not to notice my pain for
several minutes thanks to this tedious task. Once each grape has a drop in it, I put them all back in the trail mix bag.

As soon as I don’t have anything to do, I panic. Think of something, Helen, anything. None of my friends, or I guess I should call them classmates, know I’m here. Only my parents know. And my brother. So the only visits I can hope for would be from my family.

And I might end up waiting a long time for that.

I didn’t want to tell any of my classmates why I had to go to the hospital. I don’t like the idea of them visiting me in the proctology unit. They all think I’m home with the flu. When I took off—how many days ago now?—because my ass hurt so bad, I told them I felt a flu coming on. That I was feeling achy. Nice word. Achy. And that I had to go home. I didn’t have to worry about having my cover blown because none of them would stop by my house anyway. Nobody wants to hang out with a sick person. They like to go out, party, hang out in the park. They drink a lot and smoke pot, and you can’t do that while visiting a sick person at home with their parents around. We only go around to people’s places when their parents are on vacation. Otherwise, being outdoors is the best place for our hobbies. My parents are always pleased I get so much fresh air. But obviously, for me and my friends, hanging out isn’t about getting fresh air in our lungs.

Robin comes into the room.

In his hand he’s holding a plastic shot glass with two pills in it. These pills are shaped differently from any of the others. I guess the nurse said something about my pain. I don’t even ask what they are. I hold out my hand, he plunks the two fat pills onto my palm, and I smack my hand to my mouth. Just like in the movies. The pills hit the back of my throat and I almost hurl. Quick, chase them with some hospital water. I cough. The uvula is a sensitive spot.

And unfortunately it’s very closely tied to the gag reflex. Which can be very disruptive during sex. God didn’t think that one out very well when he designed human beings. If I suck a cock during sex and want him to come in my mouth, I have to pay a hell of a lot of attention to make sure he doesn’t shoot his sperm on my uvula. Because then I would puke immediately. Been through it all, our Helen. Obviously I want to take the cock as deep into my throat as I can—it really makes a striking visual impact. I look like a sword swallower. But I really have to watch out for my uvula. It’s a pain. Everything has to tiptoe around it.

“Robin, did you call my parents before the emergency operation?”

“Oh, you know what, I forgot to tell you with all the commotion. I was only able to leave messages. Didn’t reach them directly. Sorry. I’m sure they’ll come at some point. Once they’ve listened to their messages.”

“Sure.”

He tidies the room. The table at the foot of the bed, something in the bathroom. He neatly organizes everything on the metal nightstand.

I stare straight ahead and say under my breath, “Any other parents whose daughter was in a situation like this would either stay with her in the hospital the whole time or sit by the phone at home so as not to miss any emergency calls. The trade-off, I guess, is that I have more freedom. Thanks.”

I ask him if he wants to taste my new specialty. I’ve invented a new dish. It’s that boring for me here, Robin.

I hold out the trail mix bag with the tear-grapes in it. If someone eats a woman’s tears, the two of them are forever bound to each other.

I explain what he has in his hand. I leave out the part about the tears. He bravely sticks the modified grape in his mouth. First I hear the skin of the grape burst, then the crack of the nut. With his mouth full he says he likes it and asks if he can have some more. Of course. He eats one after the other. He continues to clean up and keeps coming back to the metal nightstand to pop another grape in his mouth.

The pills aren’t working yet. I’m tense and tired. Pain is exhausting. It’s very hard to create attachments with people in a hospital room. I have the feeling everybody wants to get out of my room quickly. Maybe it doesn’t smell
good in here. Or I don’t look good. Or maybe people just want to distance themselves from sickness and pain. The nurses’ station has a magical pull on all the nurses and caregivers, including Robin. I can hear them laughing out there in ways they never do in here. As a patient I’ll soon be gone; as employees they’ll still be here. That creates a barrier. But I’ll break it down soon. Even with no medical training I’ll join them as soon as I’m released. As a candy striper I’ll be allowed in their break room and drink sparkling water with them. For the first time, I have the feeling that Robin is trying to stay near me. He doesn’t leave. He keeps tidying. In places he’s already just cleaned up. It makes me happy. I’ve managed to create an attachment.

I pick up the phone. I dial mom’s number. Nobody answers. Answering machine.

“Hi, it’s me. When is somebody going to come visit me? I’m in pain and I have to stay here longer than I thought. At least send my brother by. He hasn’t been here yet. I would visit him if he had an operation down under.”

I hang up. Slam it down. Of course, on an answering machine you can’t tell the difference between a friendly hang up and an angry one.

I pick up the phone again and ask the dial tone: “And why did you try to kill yourself and Tony, mom? Are you sick? What’s wrong?”

You coward, Helen.

I’m spent.

I’m talking to myself, and a little bit to Robin.

“I can’t take it anymore. Not by myself. I have to constantly beg for painkillers. I lie to everyone about my bowel movements so I can stay here as long as possible in order to bring my parents together in this room. But they never come. And they’ll never show up at the same time. How is my plan supposed to work? What a load of shit. A massive load of shit. I’m an idiot and want things nobody else wants.”

I can feel the muscles in my shoulders tightening up. That always happens when I realize that everything’s pointless and that I can’t control things. My shoulders start to rise toward my ears because of the tension and I cross my arms and try to push them back down with my hands. I close my eyes and try to calm myself with exaggerated deep breathing. Doesn’t work. Never works. My butt is burning, it’s killing me, and my shoulders are attaching themselves to my ears.

My grandmother has been so tense for her whole life that she doesn’t have any shoulders at all anymore. Her arms come right out of her ears. Right next to her head. Once, when I was still young and nice, I went to massage her and she immediately let out a bloodcurdling scream. Then she told me that the muscles there had been so tense for so many years that the lightest touch felt to her as if someone were poking around in an open wound. But that’s not reason
enough for her to try to do something about it. She just has all her blouses altered at the tailor so the arms are sewn right onto the collar—otherwise the extra flower-print fabric of the shoulders would hang there in big pouches. If I don’t want to end up like that, I’m going to have to come up with a way to avoid it. But how? Gymnastics? Massages? Ditch my family?

As a result of getting my back slammed in the car door, my doctor used to have me get regular massages. The first thing I’d ask each new masseuse was whether they’d ever had a male client get a hard-on during a massage.

Every one of them said yes. I’d act as if I was sympathetic, that I was as disgusted as they were about the boners.

Ah, men. In reality I was hoping to hear a story that would turn me on. I mean, what do these people think?

How can a man avoid getting a hard-on when a woman is massaging all around his cock and balls, like on his upper thigh? I get wet from that, too. It’s just that with women you can’t see the excitement.

I’ll start with that. I need to take the bull by the horns so I don’t end up like grandma. When I get out of here, I’m scheduling some more massages.

Where is Robin? I can hear him puttering around in the bathroom. Is it possible he’s worried about me? Though I have downed some strong medicine—maybe he’s just obligated to keep an eye on me. That could be it.

When was the last time I ate something?

Who cares. I only want to eat painkillers. Nothing else. The pain in my ass keeps getting worse. My head is spinning.

Grandma can probably lie on her side very easily. The breadth of normal shoulders can get in the way when lying on your side. When she lies on her side, it’s a straight line from her ear right down along her arm. Much more comfortable. Maybe I won’t make any appointments for massages after all. I should have a closer look at grandma. Then I’ll decide.

Robin comes over to the bedside.

“Is it bad?”

“Yes.”

“In my experience, it’ll start to get better by tonight at the latest. Tomorrow you’ll probably be able to handle it without any medicine, and if you have a bowel movement with no bleeding, you’ll probably be allowed to go home.”

That’s not possible. They’d send me home in this condition? That’s it for my plan. Definitely. But I had already screwed it up. Pointless. This whole thing.

“Home? Nice.”

Shit.

Robin, I don’t want to go home. And I already had a bowel movement. I’ve fooled you all. Sorry. All because of my messed-up family. I have nowhere to go. I have to stay here. Forever.

I don’t want Robin to leave.

Maybe I can distract myself from the pain with a bit of conversation until the medicine starts working.

“Robin, can I tell you a secret?”

“Oh, man. What is it, Helen?”

“It’s not what you think.” Of course. I need to dispel the reputation I have with him. “It’s got nothing to do with my ass or nakedness or anything. I just wanted to show you my little family.”

He looks annoyed, but nods.

I turn to the windowsill and lift up the Bible.

“What is all that?” he asks.

I put the Bible down next to me in bed.

I give him a long lecture about my hobby, growing avocado trees.

He listens closely. I manage to keep him in my room for a long time. For the moment I don’t have to share him with other ass patients.

As I bring my presentation to a close, he takes off his white hospital clogs and climbs onto my bed. He looks at the avocado pits up close. This makes me very happy. Nobody’s ever shown so much interest in this hobby of mine.

He says he wants to try it out himself at home. Says they look pretty.

“If you want, you can pick one out and take it home with you.”

“No, I couldn’t do that. You’ve already put so much work into them.”

“Yes, and for exactly that reason, you should take one.”

He hesitates. He must be trying to figure out whether or not it’s allowed. Strong sense of duty it seems to me. Always following the rules, this Robin.

“Well, okay. If you’re absolutely sure you want to give one away. I’ll take this one here.”

He points to the nicest one of all. A light-yellow pit with touches of light pink. And a healthy, dark green sprout. Good choice.

“It’s yours.”

He picks up the glass and carefully lifts it across the bed, keeping it balanced so the water doesn’t spill. He slips back into his shoes and stands in front of my bed with the avocado pit. He seems really happy. We smile at each other.

He walks out.