The Assigned (3 page)

The ground floor employees at St. Jude Hospital are used to the roar of my motorcycle as I make my arrival. But being used to it doesn’t make them like it any better. Their faces frown as I park in my usual spot, the red No Parking Zone. I take one last drag of my menthol before flicking it towards the nearest receptacle. It bounces off the trash bin and hits the ground.

“I hate this place,” I mumble as I enter the double sliding doors of the emergency room, my left leg stiffened from the ride. It makes my limp more apparent. I head straight for the restroom, turn on the faucet and begin raking the dirt from under my nails. Barely twenty-two, it’s fair to say I’ve aged in the last four years. Bags have formed under my eyes. My hair is longer, my face unshaven, my jeans stained. The leather jacket I wear smells of engine oil. Some men do this in a fashionable kind of way but I wasn’t smart enough to plan this out. Nervously, I try to scrape the grime from under my nails but there is way too much to remove in one cleaning.

“You’ve got to be strong for Chrissy,” I say to myself in the mirror. “For Angel.”

The moment quickly ends as the bathroom door opens. A man wearing a lab coat enters. Dr. Amali. He pauses at the sight of me, almost startled, before continuing to the urinal. We mumble pleasantries.

“Mr. Myers …”

“Doc …”

Dr. Amali is probably in his mid-fifties and of Middle Eastern descent. As I exit the restroom, a middle-aged man wearing scrubs enters. I nearly take his shoulder off with my pass. The collision loosens a high-priced gold watch from his wrist. I manage to catch it before it hits the floor.
Now this could pay a year’s worth rent,
I think to myself. A nervous grin flashes across his face as he waits for me to return the expensive timepiece.

“Nice watch,” I say.

“Th—Thanks.”

A small obscure shaped tattoo on the man’s wrist catches my attention. It would’ve been hidden by his watch. He seems to want it that way, now placing his hand in his pocket, accepting the watch with the other. The men strike up a conversation as I leave.

“So how was the trip, Phil?” asks Dr. Amali.

“Great,” says the other. “A godsend.”

***

I make my way to room 413. It’s been my pseudo home for the past three long months. Unfortunately, it’s been Christina’s home as well. The space is deathly cold. The staff insists it stay at the present temperature due to the medical equipment. You can hear the hum of silence as it buzzes throughout the room. I’ve become accustomed to this, but even worse, so has Christina. Sometimes I’m amazed at how much fight my daughter has in her. She never complains. She always tries her best to smile, even when I can tell she’s hurting. Angelina couldn’t have left me a better gift.

I nudge the young woman sitting in a chair beside the bed. Although upright, she’s clearly asleep. Her head rests in her hand as if a ploy to stay awake. It doesn’t seem to be working.

“Hey sis,” I say softly. Alicia slowly comes to.

“Hunh?” She responds, still groggy. “Oh — Zeek. Hey — Sorry — I was —”

“Shhh. It’s fine,” I say, placing a finger over my mouth.

Angelina’s younger sister has barely aged in the last four years. Now twenty, she’s cut her golden brown hair to reflect a more, independent look. Alicia yawns as she stretches. “I need to tell you something, Zeek.”

Not now
, I signal, turning towards Christina.

A frail five year-old rests in the over-sized bed. They say she’s
my Christina
although I hardly recognize her anymore. She’s excruciatingly thin, even for a five year-old. Tubes protrude from her mouth and arms. Her skin seems to have paled even more since the morning. Once beautiful long brown hair is now replaced by brittle shards, even falling out in some places. Chrissy’s body rejects most foods and the majority of her nourishment comes through an IV, ever present in her left arm.

To most folks, I’m an outsider, a loner. People don’t even look me in the eye walking down the street. But to Christina, I was Daddy. And now,
Daddy
can’t do anything but watch as my helpless child lays here dying. And I die slowly too, knowing
here
, I am as helpless as she is. What kind of life is this? For anyone?

I’ve already lost the first love of my life and that guilt continues to destroy me daily. I can’t lose the second. I just can’t.

I gingerly take Chrissy’s hand. The once curious little girl slightly opens her eyes. Cracks at the sides of her dried mouth indicate an attempt at smiling.

“Daddy,” she whispers.

“There’s my baby girl,” I whisper back.

Weakened, she closes her eyes. Her small fingers continue to grasp my hand as I swallow hard. I can’t let myself break down in front of my baby girl. “I tell you what. Daddy’s gonna talk to the doctors for a minute and when I get back, I’ll read you a story. Deal?”

Eyes still closed, Christina answers, “Deal.”

Usually I get my daily report after first sitting with Christina for a few minutes. No need to search for personnel today as Dr. Amali enters the room. “Can I speak with you for a moment, Mr. Myers?” he asks.

“I was just coming to find you, Doc.” We step out into the hallway. “What’s with the new equipment?” I ask.

“It’s a—”

Quickly, I cut him off. Gone is any remnant of the tender tone I took with Christina. “Why can’t you figure out how to make her better?! I mean you can figure out she needs more machines but you can’t figure out how to take her off of ‘em? I don’t get it.”

The doc keeps calm. “I understand your concern, Mr. Myers. Let me reassure you we’re doing everything we can to help little Christina. But honestly she’s just not getting better and then today—”

“What—what do you mean today?” I mutter.

“Well today her heart stopped beating for approximately sixty seconds.”

My throat completely closes. I know exactly what I want to say but it takes seven seconds before my esophagus allows any air to expel. Finally I speak. “Why didn’t you call my job? Why am I just finding out about this?”

“We did try, Mr. Myers, but we were told you’re no longer employed there.”

I wanted to say something, do something. But what could I do? He was right.

“I’m sorry Mr. Myers,” he continues. “Christina’s body isn’t responding to anything and quite frankly, we’ve tried it all.”

Christina has been misdiagnosed too many times to count. Most doctors first thought it was a rare form of cancer. Some said Leukemia. So-called specialists said Kawasaki’s Disease. Truth was … no one was certain. The only certainty was that her body was diminishing rapidly.

Desperation rings through my voice. “What about … what about those experimental drugs you talked about? Can’t you give her more of those?”

“It’s not that simple, Mr. Myers. Her body rejects everything we’ve tried so far.”

“So what exactly are you trying to say, Doc?”

Dr. Amali clears his throat as he slowly backs up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Myers. There’s nothing else we can do for Christina. All we can do now is let nature take its course. Unless she makes a drastic change, she’s looking at one, maybe two months. We’ll do everything we can to make her comfortable until then.”

I turn my back to the doctor. I’ve heard enough.

“Once again, I’m sorry, Mr. Myers.”

Still not facing the doctor, I can hear his footsteps inching closer but I have no interest in the sympathy pat that’s coming. Slowly, I proceed back to my daughter’s room. Water engulfs my eyes as I continue to walk, my maimed leg feeling heavier than ever. Dizziness, anger, and brokenness overtake me.

-----------T H E A S S I G N E D-----------

I don’t notice I’ve left my bag at church until I reach for my keys to open the front door. Luckily, I keep an extra one in a small hole in the wall outside our apartment. Thankfully, our
gracious
management never had it fixed. A’ma starts as soon as I open the door.

“Gloria? You know I could’ve
died
waiting on you.”

I ignore the comment heading straight for the kitchen. “A’ma, what would you like to eat?”

She strains her neck as she turns towards the kitchen, apparently wanting me to see the look on her face. Although in her mid-forties, A’ma bears the countenance of someone much older. Matted, disheveled hair rests unevenly upon her head. The difficult woman sits atop a worn down couch, wearing an old, tattered nightgown. Our outdated television is tuned to a rerun of
‘Matlock’
, her favorite show.

Aged furniture fills the stuffy, slightly rundown apartment. We don’t have a lot but we get by. Noticeably, there are no pictures visible with the exception of one. Sitting on a small end-table near the front door is a picture of me in my high school graduation cap and gown. So far it’s the only real accomplishment I’ve ever had.

“I can’t believe someone would do this to their own mother,” she continues. “What if I got too hungry to wait on you? I could’ve easily burned myself or worse.”

I place a TV dinner in the stove. Over the years, I’ve mastered the art of ignoring A’ma’s comments.
Here it comes
, I think to myself.

A’ma starts ranting in Spanish. Although she never officially taught me the language, I know a few choice words when I hear them. She switches back to English to continue her investigation of my whereabouts.

“And just where have you’ve been
Mija
?”

“I was at the church helping Deacon Nichols.”

“You and that god forsaken—”

“A’ma!” I quickly interrupt. “Don’t talk about the Lord’s house like that.” I usually ignore her tirades, that is until she speaks negatively about the church.

“I’ll say what I want!” she yells back. “And that damn Nichols. They nothing but a bunch of phonies and crooks!”

“I’ve had about enough of that A’ma. Deacon Nichols is a fine man. You don’t even know him.”

“I know his kind. They’re all alike,” she finishes before switching back to Spanish.

Eventually I sigh, “Dinner will be ready shortly, A’ma.”

Living with her is nearly unbearable at times, but what else can I do? She’s the only family I’ve got.

I move to the bathroom to find A’ma’s painkillers. I could definitely use some, too. As I search for something to put the cranky woman to sleep, my own reflection grabs my attention. Deacon Nichols’ words ring through my head.
“… pretty girl like you?”

Staring back at my reflection, I’ve almost forgotten what I look like. For the most part, average features stare back at me. Probably wouldn’t have ever been noticed by anyone if it wasn’t for my height. They say 5’7” is pretty tall for a girl. My Mexican features are predominant, though not overwhelming. I’ve always thought my father could be from almost any background. Old classmates would probably say I’ve done little to change my look in the two years since graduating high school. Brown hair, brown eyes, round button nose, full lips. Maybe I would be considered attractive if I fixed myself up and didn’t act so much like a tomboy. That’s what a guy told me one time. I didn’t find it too complementary at the time but who knows … maybe he’s right.

“What am I doing?” I smirk as I resume my search through the various prescription bottles. My hands fumble around as my mind continues to wander. I couldn’t entertain the thought of dating with A’ma the way she is. I’ve tried that before. It lasted a whole four weeks. It’s like she grows more ill whenever I grow close to someone. Some coincidence. And besides, most guys in their early twenties want more than I’m willing to offer. So with two strikes against me, I stopped dating all together. Things are just easier that way. A’ma is the only family I have here in the states. I’m her only child, and honestly she’s done pretty well by me. As a matter of fact, I even respect my mother, Gabriela Torres, in a lot of ways. Coming to a new country on her own as a young woman, working and providing for a child, even though the father leaves her and their daughter to fend for themselves. It’s a miracle A’ma didn’t deteriorate sooner than the last seven or eight years. So what if the doctors can’t find anything wrong with her. They don’t know everything, and she’s definitely been through a lot. These are all the things I tell myself to keep a positive outlook on my non-existent life.

“Found them!” I shout aloud as I place my hands on the missing sedatives. When I reenter our dimly lit living room, A’ma seems to be in better spirits.

“I’m sorry Gloria,” she says. “I just don’t want anyone taking advantage of you. You’re all I have, Mija.”

“It’s ok A’ma”, I smile. “Now take your medicine. I’m gonna go take a quick shower and then I’ll get your dinner before I leave.”

“What? You’re leaving me again?”

“I have to work tonight. They’re doing a big interview with that celebrity in town and I have to help.”

“Will you at least be on TV this time …” A’ma winces.

“I told you A’ma, that’s not what I do. I’m a cameraperson.”

A’ma frowns as she turns up the television. She doesn’t think my job is suitable for a girl, but I think it suits me just fine. Besides, I’m glad I’m not on the tube. One less thing for her to criticize.

“Now you have your medicine, your dinner is cooking, anything else you need?”

A’ma grins. “I don’t know what I would do without you, Mija.”

Sometimes I’m not sure if it’s the truth or if it’s part of her act. The two intertwine seamlessly. “I know A’ma. Oh, I also may have to go back by the church. I left my bag there.” And just like that her grin is eaten by a monstrous frown.

I never understood why A’ma hates the church so much. Though she never attends, it was her who initially brought me to St. Peter’s all those years ago. Only nine at the time, I distinctively remember my mother combing my hair, dressing me in a homemade flowery dress and dropping me off in front of the intimidating structure. Her only words were,
“I’ll be back in two hours to pick you up.”
And I definitely didn’t understand her disdain for Deacon Nichols. She’s hardly ever interacted with the man, much less know him. Besides the few times he walked me to the car as a kid, the two never spoke. I guess there must be a small place somewhere deep inside the complex woman that wants, or at least
wanted
faith ingrained in me. So in many ways I’m grateful to her for introducing me to an aspect of life I hold so dear.