Shadows, page 20
At first, doctors and nurses, none of whom they knew, kept entering the room, looking at Richard’s chart, sometimes checking his pulse, lifting his eyelids, listening to his heartbeat. They ignored Miriam and Alex, and JaMarcus, if he was there. Dr. McKay dropped in occasionally and explained the visitors were students and residents who had heard about Richard and wanted to see him as part of their studies.
One doctor actually spoke to them, introducing himself as the anesthesiologist, and assuring them that his procedures had been nothing less than perfect, that what had occurred was simply baffling to the entire staff of the hospital, and that all that could be done was being done. Alex suspected he had been sent by Mr. Boylan.
He and Miriam had given up sleeping at the hospital. It had not helped, and the road ahead seemed a long one.
The hotel room he stayed in had become a punishment box. He was suffocating. He felt as if he were in prison. At night he opened the window as far as it would go. He pushed his head out. He could not see the sky because of the buildings. The air was moist and chill and full of soot and the fumes of traffic. In spite of that, he breathed it in hungrily.
One morning he woke up at five o’clock. He had lain on the bed all night with his clothes on, the TV flickering, occasionally dozing, then coming awake again. He took a hot shower, put on clean underwear and a fresh shirt. The pants and jacket were the same ones he had been wearing when he had left Wanda’s. He had not considered how long he was going to stay in the hotel.
He called the hospital and got the usual answer: nothing had changed. He put his things in the small valise, took the elevator down to the lobby, and checked out.
Without considering why he was doing it, he was at the office before six. He went to his desk, got his father’s diary out of the lower drawer where he had last put it, locked it up again, and headed for the subway.
There were masses of people underground at this hour. They moved with speed and determination streaming around him in all directions giving off a humming sound like a swarm of bees. He felt himself being pushed and shoved. He clutched the diary against his chest with one hand and held on to the valise with the other.
On the edge of the platform, he unwillingly inhaled the odor of unwashed bodies and overly strong perfume. He looked down at the gleaming rails. He thought of his boss Roth and his job. Going nowhere. Little satisfaction. No appreciation. Why didn't he get out now while he still could? Go back to teaching. He wondered if he could do it anymore.
The crowd was thick behind him. He remembered the story on TV about a man accidentally shoved in front of a train and killed. What a laugh if he found himself suddenly pushed onto the tracks. Would he struggle to save himself, or would he accept it as destiny? They would probably say he had chosen to do it. It would even be historically accurate since the tendency was probably in his genes, the evidence provided by his sister.
He looked into the tunnel. At first there was only the blackness and then suddenly there were lights propelling forward. A phrase from the Bible came to him…‘more bitter than death’…The lights at the top of the car were like two searchlights, swaying with the motion of the train. He felt dizzy, and thought he was going to fall. He could see the motorman in a small box of yellow in the darkness, his face blurred like a bad photograph.
There was a rumble, then a roar and the train was there, doors opening with a hiss. He stumbled into the car, relieved, and stood pressed against a pole until he got off.
In Penn Station, at the LIRR waiting room he bought a container of coffee that turned out to be so bitter, it was all but undrinkable. He had to stand again until the change at Jamaica where he was finally able to find a seat. The ride to the Centre Avenue station in East Rockaway would take forty minutes. He put the valise up top but held on to the diary.
He walked to the house, anticipating that Miriam would not be there when he arrived, because she would already have left for the hospital. He was glad to see that her car was not in the driveway.
He unlocked the side door that led to the kitchen and put the valise and notebook on the kitchen table. He stood there a moment and listened to the silence of the house. He felt like an intruder as if he didn’t belong here anymore.
The refrigerator compressor came on. It was an old machine that labored all the time. They had talked about replacing it but had never gotten around to it. He realized now it was because in the last few years he could not get himself to make a decision about anything. Then he heard the oil burner in the basement start up. It was comforting, reassuring to hear these sounds. He sat at the table and thought about what he should do next.
A car pulled into the driveway. He looked at his watch, saw that it was just eight o’clock, and realized he had miscalculated.
Miriam came in carrying a brown paper bag. She saw him immediately but said nothing. She put the bag down on the countertop and removed its contents, a coffee container, and something wrapped in white paper.
“You go out for coffee?” he asked.
“It’s easier.” She got a plate out of the closet, unwrapped the paper, and placed its contents, an English muffin, on the plate. Then she brought it to the table along with the container and sat across from him. “Do you want some?”
He shook his head.
“Sure? I’m not that hungry.”
“Neither am I, but thanks anyway.”
She shrugged and began to eat.
Miriam had returned to herself this morning. She was once again fully made up, well-groomed, good-looking, and efficient. She wore a navy suit with a cream-colored blouse that had ruffles at the neck. He watched her bite into the muffin and drink from the container, her freshly painted lips leaving a red semicircle on it. She looked back at him giving no indication of what she was thinking or feeling.
Miriam had always been strong. Her father had died young. Her mother was the kind of person who distanced herself from anxiety. If there was a problem, her mother would rather not know about it. Miri had been the grownup in their household.
Now, Miri had had to deal with what you might call, a situation. What was this so-called situation? A tragedy, a life lesson, a sitcom, a blip on the learning curve? It was certainly one full of shit, and she’d had to deal with it all by herself. Unsurprisingly, she had done just that.
Miriam patted her lips with a napkin. “Do you want to tell me what you’re doing here?”
“I was hoping I could stay awhile.”
“It’s your house as well as mine.”
“That’s nice of you.”
“Not really. I have no right to keep you out. Even if we start divorce proceedings, I understand you have a right to stay here.”
“Who said anything about a divorce?”
She stared at him for a long moment. “Come on, Alex. We don’t have a marriage anymore.”
“I know it hasn’t been good for a long time. But that doesn’t mean we have to give up on it, does it?”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Counseling?”
“I think it’s too late for that. I don’t think anyone can find a way to repair this.”
“Well, we don’t have to do anything right away, do we? Can’t we wait? Let’s concentrate on Richard for now.”
He searched her eyes for a sign of understanding, not expecting compassion. “I won’t bother you while I’m here. I’ll try not to get in your way. I thought I could use Richard’s old room.”
“I guess that’ll be all right,” she said.
“Good. I’m glad we worked something out, at least.”
She pointed at the things he had put on the table. “I see you’re still carrying around your father’s notebook. That’s it, isn’t it?”
He nodded.
“I don’t see that it’s done you much good.”
The phone rang. She got up to answer it. “Mr. Roth, how are you?”
He shook his head and signaled with his hands, then mouthed, “I’m not here.”
“No, his condition hasn’t changed. But all the signs are good. We’re trying to be optimistic…Alex isn’t here. He’s probably at the hospital…” She listened for a while, then said, “Of course, I’ll give him the message. I understand. Thanks for calling.” When she hung up, she said, “He’s mad as hell and he’s not gonna take it anymore.”
“Fuck him.”
“He says he understands you’re upset about Richard, but your job is important, too. Things are going to hell in a handbasket there. Those are his words.”
“They would be.”
She took her plate, put it into the dishwasher, and put the container and napkin into the trash. “I’m going to the store and then back to the hospital.”
“I called earlier. There’s no change. I’ll be there later.”
“That’s that, then,” she said. As she was going out the door, she said, “Oh, by the way, The doctor called about my biopsy. Turns out I don’t have cancer after all.”
Before he could say a word, she had gone.
What a relief it was to know something good had finally happened. He allowed himself the luxury of feeling something enjoyable for a change.
He went up to Richard’s room, put his valise down, and sat on the bed. Nothing had changed. The same posters of David Bowie, Pink Floyd, and Marlon Brando still stared out at the world.
He found himself holding the diary. He opened it casually, not wanting to read it at this time. He read a few lines, then skipped to another page, read a few lines, and skipped again. Then, because he couldn’t help himself, went back to the beginning and read it straight through from beginning to end. For what, the hundredth time? No matter. When he was finished, he ended up feeling the way he had the first time he’d read it. Despite all that was going on, he had to find his sister.
Chapter 45
In the days and weeks that followed, Alex realized that the human mind and body have the extraordinary ability to adjust to anything. It wasn’t a great adjustment, he wasn’t dancing in the aisles, but he was able to cope. That was enough.
He and Miriam faced the fact that Richard was in a coma, and that there was no way of knowing if he would ever come out of it. While in the hospital they talked to Richard, touched him, and tried to behave as if he were responding. They were told by the staff these were beneficial things to do, that the sound of their voices might be getting through to him.
Richard lay still, tubes attached, one to an IV, another to a monitor on the wall behind him, its green lines marching in an endless parade to nowhere. He was clean-shaven, shaved on a regular basis by the aides, but it was obvious he had lost weight. His face had become leaner, his cheeks hollowed out.
Life outside the hospital went on in an almost normal way. He had worked out an arrangement with Miriam. They lived in the same house, but their interactions were formal. Alex found that by following a routine he could do his work efficiently.
Occasionally, he would be startled, realizing he had drifted off. It could happen at home, or while commuting, or finding himself sitting at his desk with a pen in his hand in the middle of writing a note. There were thoughts of his father, the diary, Clarice, and the waste of her life. Miriam and Wanda were often there. It was difficult to shake these meanderings off and get back to work but he managed it.
One day Wanda left a note on his desk requesting he meet her for lunch at the diner they’d been to before. He didn’t want to go. He knew she was going to try to pressure him about their relationship.
When he arrived she was already sitting in a booth. She was wearing a dark blue suit with a cream-colored frilly blouse. She was a very good-looking woman, always well dressed, carefully made up, her long brown hair, shining, as always. She didn’t smile or greet him.
He sat opposite her and ordered coffee.
She said, “Aren’t you going to eat anything?”
“I’m not hungry.”
The waitress came with his coffee and Wanda’s order, chicken salad. Alex waited until the waitress left. “Now what’s this about?”
“You know what this is about. Us.”
He sighed. “Right now, there is no us. I tried to explain that to you. I have my son to think about. That’s all I can handle.”
“You know what I think?” She stared at him, her eyes like stones. “I think you’re using it as an excuse to break up with me.”
“That’s nonsense. If I wanted to break up with you, I’d just do it. I don’t need an excuse.” He’d spoken the truth, but the moment the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. Maybe he was too harsh.
“So then, where are we? How long is this separation going to continue?”
“I don’t know. Remember, I told you when I moved out that I needed to concentrate on my son. That hasn’t changed. I have to wait until my son gets better. Then we’ll see.”
“What is there to see? It’s quite simple. When he recovers, are you coming back to me, or not?”
He shook his head. “Aren’t you forgetting something? Weren’t you the one who said you didn’t want it to get too serious? That is was all about sex? What happened with that?”
“That was before. This is now. I decided I want you in my life.”
“I don’t quite know what to say to that. I’m really flattered, Wanda. I didn’t realize you felt that way at all.” He picked up his cup and took a sip of coffee. “Look. I’m trying to be honest with you. The truth is, I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know how long this thing with Richard is going to go on. I don’t know how I’m going to feel when it’s all over. I’m sorry. I know that’s a shitty answer. But that’s all I can tell you right now.”
Wanda stood up and retrieved her coat and pocketbook. “In that case, you can go to hell.” She walked away before he could say anything.
He remained where he was for a while. He hadn’t expected anything like that from her. At the same time, he was surprised to be having mixed feelings. He felt a bit of relief, and at the same time a feeling of guilt. Had he treated her that badly? He didn’t think so. He’d never promised anything. But was that what he really wanted? To be free of Wanda?
He left the restaurant and went back to work. He was confused. He knew that much. At the same time, he had a right to be. There was so much stuff going on. He had no clue about his sister. He couldn’t follow up on that by going back to Rudi Emmenthaler and his wife. There was no doubt they would have nothing to do with him after what happened the last time he was there. At home, he and Miriam managed to get along, although they rarely talked. A truce had been declared, unspoken, uneasy, but a truce.
One day Miriam told him she had been contacted by a support group.
“You mean there are that many people in comas that they have support groups for them?”
“Apparently. Do you want to go?”
“No. Do you?”
She shook her head. “I’m not ready.”
“I know. I feel the same way. I don’t want him to be one of them. I don’t want to be in a group of victims. It’s like admitting he’s never going to come out of it.”
They spent weekends at the hospital. JaMarcus was there, too, his strong presence welcome. They were glad he was there, but they rarely stayed in the room at the same time.
Sometimes there were all three of them, sometimes two, sometimes one. Each took turns talking to Richard.
Once, JaMarcus called out, “He squeezed my hand. I felt a response.” He smiled, teeth dazzlingly white in contrast to his dark skin.
“You’re sure? You weren’t imagining it?”
“I’m sure of it.”
Miriam said, “I thought I saw his eyelids move a few times, but I didn’t want to say anything. I wasn’t sure if they really moved.”
“We’ll keep trying,” Alex said. “Maybe we are getting through.”
The man with the curly white hair who had shared the room with Richard stopped by. He was being discharged. He said he had come by to offer his best wishes.
“I will pray for him in the synagogue,” he said. “I will ask my whole congregation to pray. I am sure God will hear us.”
“Thank you,” Miriam said. “It’s very kind of you.”
“Kind shmind,” he said. “This kind of tsouris nobody needs.”
After the man left, Alex said, “I’m going out for a while. I’ll be back later.”
He left the hospital, walked one block to the subway entrance, went down the steps, and got on the train heading to Brooklyn, He had to change at Court Street for the BMT line that would take him to the Kings Highway station, the one he’d used for the visit to Rudi. It was no surprise to see the stores, the traffic, and the grimy litter of the commercial street. He left that behind and began the half-hour’s walk to where he was going. He walked through neighborhoods that he thought must have been built by someone who adhered to the architectural design called cookie-cutter. On block, after block, each house was the same two-story Cape Cod with red brick facing, a one-car driveway, and a small plot of garden, most of which were enclosed with cyclone fencing. The shrubs were done in geometric squares, rectangles, and rounds.
He found the place without difficulty. This building differed from the others on the block in that there was no shrubbery, the building taking up the entire lot. It was plain on the outside but Alex remembered the beauty of the sanctuary on the upper floor. The bronze plaque with the name, Congregation Shaare Tefilla, had a green patina, he hadn’t noticed before.
He pulled the door handle but the door didn’t open. He pulled it again but it still didn’t budge. He grabbed the handle with both hands knowing he was being ridiculous and pulled as hard as he could. After two backward lunges, he gave up.
