Dancing with the Dead (10 page)

Squeeze anything tight enough, he thought, and something’s sure to break.

A
N OVERWEIGHT NURSE
with a blotchy complexion and too much perfume sat down with Mary and confirmed Angie’s Blue Cross status, then she told Mary to wait and someone else would talk to her shortly. She stood up and walked behind a long, curved desk, where she sat down again. The woman apparently wasn’t the one who’d talked to her on the phone, so Mary asked again, “Who was it checked my mother in here?”

The nurse squinted at her computer’s glowing green screen. She tapped a few keys and caused the tiny printed information to scroll slowly while she peered at it, then she swiveled in her chair to face Mary. “Sorry. Whoever brought her here didn’t leave a name.”

A very tall man in a wrinkled white uniform came in and laid some yellow forms on the desk, and the nurse turned her attention to them. She began methodically stapling blue forms to the yellow ones.

Mary walked across the hall and sat down in one of a dozen molded plastic chairs in a drab green waiting room with a low table cluttered with tattered copies of
Time
and
Newsweek.
High in a corner, a TV mounted on an elbowed steel bracket was silently showing a rerun of “Wheel of Fortune.” Vanna White was waving her arms gracefully above an expensive-looking stereo outfit, as if trying to cast a spell and make it play without benefit of electricity. She was smiling broadly, even though Angie might be dying. Mary picked up a
Newsweek
with a photo of Mikhail Gorbachev on the cover. He was smiling like Vanna White. Mary tried to read the magazine but couldn’t concentrate. She tossed it back onto the table, crinkling the cover and causing Gorbachev to frown.

A woman who looked as if she was from India pushed through wide swinging doors and stopped to talk to the nurse behind the admissions desk. She was tiny and attractive, and wearing a pale green gown and cap. She had on white shoes with clear plastic wrappings over them, so that even her dainty feet were sterile for wherever she’d been or was going.

The nurse pointed to Mary, and the Indian woman walked over to her, very precise and delicate in the way she moved, and with an exotic, somber face. Mary’s imagination superimposed a sari over the surgical outfit, and a jewel on her forehead.

“I am Doctor Keshna,” the woman said in a high and musical voice, smiling faintly now and offering her hand to Mary.

Mary shook the hand, also delicate, and very limp and dry. “How’s my mother?”

“Not well, of course, though she will be better as soon as the alcohol is out of her system. But naturally that won’t solve her problem. Our records show she was a patient here in Detoxification before.”

“Yes, about three years ago.”

“So, your mother has an ongoing problem with alcohol?”

“Yes. But off and on.”

“I see. Has she been dealing with it through a support group?”

“She’s been to a few AA meetings, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I mean.” The tall man in the wrinkled white uniform shuffled past with another handful of forms. Dr. Keshna glanced somberly at him and nodded. Farther down the hall, he began to whistle “Chattanooga Choo Choo.” “Do you think you can persuade her to resume attending AA meetings?”

“It’s difficult to persuade Angie to do anything.”

Dr. Keshna smiled again. “You and your mother live separately, I believe.”

“Yes, we have for years.”

“When she leaves here, I think you should make sure she has no alcohol in her place of residence, and that she understands it’s extremely dangerous for her health if she resumes drinking.”

“I think she already understands that, though she doesn’t admit it. Can I see her now?”

“Briefly. She’s about to undergo some tests. Preliminary examination indicates she’s been imbibing heavily for a very long time. Is that true?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“We need to know what damage has been done.”

“Damage? What’s that mean? She only got drunk, didn’t she?”

Dr. Keshna shook her head sadly. “Alcohol ravages the body slowly, then suddenly the damage makes itself evident. Your mother seems disoriented beyond what is normal for her present alcohol-to-blood ratio. I want to make sure there is no permanent mental impairment.”

“My God!”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to scare you.”

But Mary
was
scared. She wanted her mother to remain Angie, not some mentally enfeebled victim of alcoholism. She remembered the inane ravings of her grandmother, Angie’s mother, who’d secretly and silently drunk herself to death long before her withered body had surrendered to time in an Illinois nursing home. Mary didn’t want to lose Angie, to be alone, to be lonely.
Thinking of myself again.
“Is she conscious?”

“Yes, but not totally coherent, and not feeling very well, I’m afraid. We want to keep her overnight.”

“If you think that’s best.”

Dr. Keshna smiled and nodded. “The nurse at the desk will tell you your mother’s room number. You can have about ten minutes with her.”

“Thank you.”

Dr. Keshna nodded rather shyly, then turned and walked back through the swinging doors.

The nurse behind the desk directed Mary to Room 242 on the second floor, cautioning her which elevator to take.

The room smelled like iodine. Angie was propped up in bed, looking ancient and dazed. Her pale lips arced down tightly, and her eyes gazed dully out from shadowed hollows with the bewilderment of the suddenly and inexplicably old. She seemed to be wondering how she’d gotten here, to this room and this point in time and space. At first she didn’t seem to recognize Mary.

“How you feeling, Angie?” Mary asked. She perched on the edge of the high bed and barely touched Angie’s arm, surprised by the coolness of the flesh. “You warm enough? I can pull the sheet up around you.”

“S’okay the way it is.”

“Why’d you go off and get stinking drunk like this?” Mary asked. She was afraid of the answer, because she knew it might in some measure be her fault for noticing Fred Wellinger with the woman at Casa Loma, then letting herself be noticed. That might have started something that had unraveled and led to this.

Angie merely shrugged and looked away.

Mary couldn’t let it rest. “Because of what Fred did?”

“Guess so,” Angie said, still facing away from Mary. Her voice was flat and seemed to be coming from somewhere beyond the wall. “I really tried to forget it, but it kept gnawing on me. Kept a grip on my mind like a pit bull. Know what I mean?”

“I know.”

“So I gnawed back, at Fred. We got in a hell of an argument.”

“That’s happened before.”

“It was quieter this time, and it hurt more. I’m sure he’s been seeing that woman.”

“He gonna keep seeing her?”

“He says no.”

“Well, there you are.”

“Yeah, here I am with alcohol poisoning. At least that’s what they call it in this place.”

“You’re alive.”

“Am I? It don’t feel that way.” Her scrawny chest heaved and she exhaled loudly. “I don’t know if I can believe Fred. I can’t believe what men say. Nobody can, not even other men.”

For the first time Mary glanced around the room. It was the same drab green as the waiting room, only the paint was fresher. There was a black vinyl chair by the bed, and a nightstand with a green pitcher of water and a box of Kleenex on it. Near the head of the bed, a device for checking blood pressure was mounted on the wall, along with some sort of equipment with dials all over it. Mary suddenly noticed something was taped to Angie’s chest beneath her white hospital gown; a coiled black wire extended over the edge of the bed and was probably attached to the machine with the dials. Mary saw glowing digital numbers blinking over and over on the machine but had no idea what they signified.

“Who brought you here?” she asked.

“Guy named Jeffrey, or Jerome, or sump’n like that.”

“Hm. Where’d you meet Jeffrey or Jerome?”

“Place on Cherokee.”

“A bar?”

“Where’d you think I’d go to drink, a church?”

“Some of those bars on Cherokee are rough, Angie.”

“I was feeling rough. Like life had shit all over me. And know what?—It had.”

“Angie!”

“Anyways, Jeffrey or Jerome was a decent sort, and he sweet-talked me outa the dump and drove me here instead of to his place or my place.”

“You weren’t going to—”

“I’m an old woman, Mary. And don’t forget I’m your mother.”

“Yeah, I won’t. I can’t.”

Dr. Keshna pushed open the door, glanced pointedly at her wristwatch, then withdrew without speaking.

“I’ve gotta leave soon,” Mary said. “They wanna run some tests on you, keep you here overnight.”

Angie didn’t respond.

“You need anything?”

“Besides a drink?”

“C’mon, Angie. What about clothes?”

“I can’t much care right now, Mary, about anything. Can’t even cry. I’m sorry.”

Mary leaned over and kissed Angie’s cool forehead. “I’ll bring you some fresh clothes to wear home tomorrow morning, okay?”

“Sure, thanks.”

Mary started to walk to the door, then she paused and looked at Angie, who was still staring at the closed blinds masking the room’s one window. She hadn’t really looked at Mary since the first few seconds after Mary had walked into the room. Mary said, “Fred’s not worth what you did, Angie. Nobody is.”

Angie slowly swiveled her head to stare directly at her. “Just who the fuck is this talking to me?”

“It’s me. Mary. Your daughter.”

For an instant Angie looked terrified. “My daughter, all right. It’s in the genes.”

“What’s in the genes?”

The door opened again, allowing a draft from the hall. Mary assumed it was Dr. Keshna, but when she turned she saw a young blond nurse carrying flowers. “For you,” she said, smiling at Angie. “Where would you like them?”

“The windowsill,” Mary said, when Angie didn’t answer.

The nurse placed the flowers—azaleas, in a small pot wrapped in red tinfoil—on the sill, then bustled out. Her rubber-soled shoes squealed like mice on the tile floor.

“There’s a card,” Mary said. “Want me to read it?”

“I know who they’re from,” Angie said listlessly. “And I ain’t astounded he somehow found out I was here. He’s got his ways.”

Mary stepped over and turned the white card so she could read it. “ ‘Love, Fred.’ That’s all it says.”

Without emotion, Angie said, “Surprise, surprise.”

“Better’n nothing,” Mary said.

“That’s what I’m s’pose to think.”

“I’ll see you in the morning, Angie.”

“Mary?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t take the bastard back. Don’t do the same stupid dance.”

“Let’s worry about you for a change,” Mary said.

“There’s a fresh bottle in the hall closet, behind the vacuum sweeper.”

“Why tell me?”

“Aren’t you gonna drive over to my apartment and clean it of anything with alcohol in it, like last time this happened?”

“That’s where I was going,” Mary admitted.

“Just trying to make it easier for you,” Angie said.

“Thanks.”

“Anyways, you’d’ve found that one right off.”

“Want me to feed Boris?”

“No, he’s a cat that makes out for hisself. Just leave the kitchen window open a crack so he can come and go as he pleases.”

Mary walked from the room. Dr. Keshna was far down the hall, coming toward her with tiny, mincing steps. As she passed, she nodded and smiled warmly, as if Mary were an old and dear friend, but she didn’t speak.

As Mary was leaving the hospital, she saw Fred slumped in one of the beige plastic chairs in the waiting room. He spotted her, dropped his
Newsweek
—the one with Gorbachev on the cover— and hurried over to stand nervously in front of her. “You seen Angie?”

He looked as if he’d dressed in a hurry, and his breath smelled like bourbon. Great.

“How’d you know she was here?” Mary asked.

“Buddy of mine name of Jerome brought her in. After he dropped her off, he realized who she was and gave me a call to let me know what happened.”

“They’re gonna run some tests,” Mary said, “then release her in the morning.”

“But how is she?”

“Not good.” Let the bastard worry.

“That nurse behind the desk don’t know elbow from asshole. She told me nobody could see Angie.”

“She’s right. That’s why I had to leave.”

“I can be here tomorrow morning to check her outa this place,” Fred said.

“I’ll do that,” Mary said. “She’s expecting me.”

Fred gave a bourbony sigh and wiped the side of his neck. “Listen, I don’t blame you for not liking me so much, Mary.”

She didn’t answer. Started walking toward the door.

“I tried to get in touch with you soon as I heard,” Fred said behind her. She felt his closeness as he followed. “There was no answer at your apartment, so I called Jake at work to see if he knew where you might be. He clocked out right away and went looking for you but couldn’t find you neither. He’s the one drove me down here.”

Mary stopped. “Where is he?”

“Still parking the car, I guess.”

Leaving Fred standing there, she walked quickly out the door and strode across the parking lot toward her car. She didn’t want to see Jake. Not now. Please.

She made it into the car and scooted down low behind the steering wheel. She was afraid. She didn’t like the vague, dispirited way her mother had talked, as if there were nothing left behind the weariness and defeat in Angie’s eyes. Angie was someone she’d always taken for granted, but if something happened to her, Mary would be alone. How alone she was now beginning to realize. Yet she’d see more and more of Angie—the Angie up there in the hospital bed—each morning when she looked in the mirror. There was no way to get more alone. That was how she felt right now, anyway. Her future lay like a trap before her.

“How’s Angie?” she heard Jake ask. God, he’d noticed her even slouched in her car parked among hundreds of other cars.

He’d opened the passenger-side door and was scooting in to sit next to her.

“I don’t know,” Mary said. “They’re not allowing anyone to see her till tomorrow.”