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Then the hospital beeper goes off. Then Oliver looks at me, his eyes hurried, questioning. I see that he’s afraid, but also pressing. I recognize his utter investment,
his belief,
in what is about to happen. I brace, start to get up, then think,
No.
Releasing my grip from the side of the bench, I lean back and look up, toward the gloaming, and give my face to the morning dew. Oliver moves to help me upright, then lets me be, and I keep looking. It is all so plain; it is all so beautiful.

—

Powdered plastic gloves snap around wrists: low-dosage morphine drips. I hear background murmurs, exchanged remarks. Above me are a trio of masked and scrubbed bodies. They are concerned with how frail I look. A looming nurse is aware enough to distract me with small talk. Casual as a dowager discussing a Broadway play, she asks if I am ready for my transplant month. She uses rubbing alcohol to coat a nozzle, which is attached to the end of a plastic tube. The tube seems oddly large: “Like something frat boys suck beer through,” I slur. Someone is slathering brown cleaning goop on a cotton swab stick: in three widening rotations, the goop is swabbed around that bruised juncture, right before jugular meets clavicle.

“It’s going to be a long month,” the nurse tsk-tsks. “I just hope you’re ready.”

What’s wrong with you?
I want to respond.
Why would you say that?
Except some sort of honeyed light is spreading through me. It’s nice enough, and I start to fade, feel my eyes flutter. Then a sensation hits, sharp pain, more concentrated, more focused, than any I have experienced during any central line installation. I wince, and moan, and shut my eyes so tight that I can feel the sides of my face cracking. The pain corkscrews further, boring in deeper. I hear myself, an animal in distress.
“More morphine. Give me more morphine.”

“There there,” says the scrub nurse. “Why the central is bigger, and it hurts so much. If you had a thinner line, the stem cells could break.”

—

My next awareness is a pulsing. At the base of my neck.

My mind is dull, packed in cotton; my body feels fragile, every outer layer peeled away. I check the throb. Near my clavicle, gauze and plastic tape pile; a series of butterfly stitches keep the tube embedded in my skin. I follow the plastic line and discover I’ve been connected to an IV, they already have something pumping. I’m in a room that is all shadows, not much natural light, these weirdly angled walls jutting together like the sides of a huge, three-dimensional pizza. It’s a small room, though. Small and triangular. Now, someone is stroking the side of my face.

I’m not used to seeing Tilda like this, in a fitted coffee-colored jacket. The satin blouse beneath is the color of a cinnamon stick, and flashes as she moves. Tilda’s hair has been styled into a layered bob, the bangs cut straight across the middle of her forehead.

“Vision of loveliness,” I say. “Gorgeous woman.”

Tilda smiles. “This old schmatta? Part of the gig. I took a few hours off.
Schlepped
over from the magazine.” Her bellow brings me joy. “I never get tired of that joke,” she says.

Now the nurse wheels in a sturdy IV stand, its base visibly wider than the regular ones, its pole more broad. Branches extend for extra bags. Four battery packs are attached. Now the glow of level monitors imbues the room in radioactive green.

“All that talk about the rooms on the transplant floor being nice and big,” Tilda says, pretending to speak to me. “The only window is actually
behind
your bed. You don’t even get a view.”

The nurse pauses from plugging in the final pack. “I checked like you wanted. Ward’s in capacity. There are six people ahead of Mrs. Culbert for the other rooms.”

I ask Tilda if my backpack is near. She hands it over, and I withdraw a small journal, its pink suede cover still pristine. My newest Receiving Journal; I made Oliver take a special trip to get it. Flipping to the first page, I ask the nurse for her name. Half a page is scribbled with dates, corresponding names, and a note, including, I quickly see,
Donnay, Orderly, “stay black stay strong.”
On the first unused line, I write.
Maggie
. I write
vitals. Will run my first day itinerary
. This is part of my plan. Whenever somebody is going to do something for me, take me somewhere, give me anything, I am going to make a note. A series of short, sweet anchors. This is how I will survive.

—

Not five minutes in and we’ve got beeping, one of the battery consoles blinking red. Maggie rolls her eyes. Checking, she resets the battery, doubles back to get my blood pressure sleeve and start my vital signs. She scans my chart and says my name, but this time with a question. Am I the one friends with Yolanda?

A smile. “Girl, Yolanda put the word out. We supposed to keep an eye peeled on how you doing.”

I thank her again. Maggie opens up, embracing me as one of her own. In short order, she confirms what I’d begun to suspect—that my radiation will not begin today, which makes sense, but still disappoints. Maggie commiserates, lets me know that Dr. Blasco also will not be in today, but is monitoring my numbers and test results. Maggie has procedural forms for me to sign and initial. She has guidelines. She has a sheet that asks if scraps from my biopsies can be used in teaching labs.

“If you want visits from a minister or rabbi, I’ll sign you up. Social worker comes by on Mondays if you want a session. We got art therapy, light yoga, massage, you can even learn to play the guitar.”

“It all sounds wonderful,” I say. “Like I’m going away for a vacation.”

“I know the music therapy dude was around earlier. He mighta left for the day. Kinda weird, that boy. Supposed to be on schedule two days a week. The fool here way more.”

“I do have a request,” I say. “When the treatments start, I will be trapped in this room, correct?”

“They’ll take you back and forth for radiation, but pretty much—”

“Could I walk the hallway? While I still can?”

Maggie looks uncertain.

“My friend will go with me.”

“Let me call the attending.”

Within minutes, a put-together woman knocks on the door. Hair in a bun, with similarly tense bearing, she introduces herself, shakes my hand, and firmly advises against a walk.

“Is there a patient’s bill of rights?”

“There is.”

“Can I see it?”

“Alice?”

“I’m okay, Tilda. I just want to know.”

“Mrs. Culvert, if you go for a walk, obviously, we are not going to call security. You’d be back in the room before they got up here. But a lot of people come through the hallways. You could have someone sneeze on you and, who knows? Once I had a patient who had the flu when he came in here. He didn’t tell us, and died two days after the transplant.”

“How many people haven’t died?” Tilda snaps. “Bring that up.”

The woman shoots Tilda a sobering look. “What if I told you I was that patient’s doctor? Or maybe that’s just one more scary story we use to keep the halls clear. Either way”—a polite smile—“I’d advise against that walk.”

—

Having lugged her suitcases and bags into a messy pile outside her room, Oliver found the area with a patient pantry, where he went to work, labeling and dating the Tupperware bins—
TURKEY LOAF, BAKED CHICKEN, STEAMED BROCCOLI
.
Making sure Alice’s name and room number were legible on the strips of masking tape, he wrote down the next day’s date, buying more time before the food got cleared out. He prepped Alice’s protein shake, nuked her turkey dinner, did the same for her lentil soup. He backed the food tray into her room. Conversation went dead. Tilda fixed him with a stare.

Why wouldn’t she know? Who else would Alice tell?

Oliver put down the food. He started hauling in luggage, asked if Alice wanted anything else. Then he told her that a wall of the break room was filled with pictures of people who’d had successful transplants and went on to live normal lives. He told Alice that at Christmastime the ward had an anniversary party for survivors, and that the break room wall had a giant photo record from the party, showing all the survivors who came back. Everyone looked so happy. One really caught Oliver’s eye, this beaming black guy, head perched next to his daughter and above his two granddaughters. “They have photos up of people who’ve survived four, six, nine years. They’re all still going.”

Swollen cheeks went rich, the crimson shade spreading until appreciation swallowed her face. Arranging her meal on the rolling tray, Oliver was close enough that she could easily touch him. But her hands remained clasped atop her bedsheet. Oliver finished prepping. Avoiding any possibility of eye contact, he walked away from the bed, unzipped the smallest suitcase, and withdrew familiar trappings: their framed wedding photo; Alice holding the newborn, seconds into Doe’s life; six weeks; nine weeks. He took out inspirational sayings from their other stays—they didn’t have the energy or time to start over—along with that unfolding, giant, taped-together sheet:
CANCER SCHMANCER
. Tilda let out a little whoop and grabbed one end, which made Oliver feel even more alone. Grim determination had him. He didn’t ask what the deal was with this cramped little room but instead walked around the length of the bed and examined the small, plaid lounger. He pulled and lifted its seat, folding out the sections, into the long cot he would sleep on. The end of the cot kept bumping the bedside table. By the time Oliver successfully repositioned it, Tilda was rubbing moisturizing cream onto Alice’s forehead.

—

With a knock, Blasco entered, the attending physician and Bhakti following right behind. The doctor looked around, winced, and ordered Bhakti to work on getting Alice a new room. He washed his hands, checked Alice’s port, mentioned the skin was red, asked the nurse to get a cleaning kit and saline. The room’s natural light was on the wane. Blasco scooted a chair next to Alice and plopped down, setting his hands in his lap. He wanted to know how she was feeling. First days were horrid, he agreed. He also told her she couldn’t shower for the next twenty-four hours. “But,” Blasco added. “Wash off your skin cream in the morning. Having skin cream on before getting radiation? Do you put on tanning oil before walking on the sun?”

—

Lights go on and I am dragged out of sleep. The clock says five. The nurse is a short Asian woman; she moves and talks with an alacrity that overwhelms me, checking my face. “Already the drugs are working,” she says. “Red cheeks and forehead are one of the effects.” She asks if I still get my period. When was the last time? I guess: “Maybe two weeks before I was diagnosed?” The nurse has me fill out a breakfast card, reminds me to pick from low-micro-meal selections, calls in the order, says it should be delivered between seven and nine. She has me push my arms against hers to check my strength. She does the same with my legs. Helping me up, she again lets me know I can’t shower for twenty-four hours. She weighs me; just over one ten. Oliver is stirring as the nurse is putting my mask on for me. Donnay—my favorite—enters with a wheelchair. In what I have come to recognize as his no-sweat fashion, he unplugs the IV battery packs. I am deposited into my chair.

“So here you go.” Oliver clasps my hand.

“Marathon of sprints,” I say. “Here I go.”

When Oliver leans in to kiss me, I offer my masked cheek. He holds my hand for an extra beat. Then my nurse drops, into my lap—
boink
—a large blue three-ring binder containing my case file. I shoot a pained look.
What’s wrong with you?

Halfway up the IV pole, thin metal branches stretch vertically to hold a second layer of fluids. The second layer makes the pole trickier to move, its balance uncertain. Donnay takes his time making sure no lines or plugs get tangled beneath the heavy rollers. We move slowly down, through the second floor. I get distracted by a series of windows, thin branches on the other side, blue sky peeking through random spaces. We head down another corridor, into what seems a different zone. The walls are painted in thick, primary colors; a glass window looks into a separate, brightly lit, and also happily-colored area. Here kids are playing. Some have patchy heads, others pates clean as pool balls. They chase each other across the giant, fuzzy map of carpet. They climb on beanbags, play with dolls and blocks, just sit on couches, reading, working on puzzles. Some have IVs. I see a child spring to a corner, bend over, and vomit into a bucket. Without pause, he comes back and rejoins a chase.

Leading up to the radiation waiting room, the hallways begin to line with the unwell. Right outside of the radiation room, a man stands out: upright in his slate-gray, three-piece suit, head so bald it looks spanking clean, his health is obvious. Some part of me thinks I’ve seen him before, but I can’t place where. I notice his meaty right hand has a tasteful gold wedding band. Now the door to the radiation room opens. A bald boy is wheeled out. Can’t be more than seven. The suited man’s smile is enormous. “Hey, buddy.”

I would happily give myself to him right here and now.

—

Door hinges groan, heavy with reinforced weight. Inside, the walls are thick with lead. I am wheeled to some sort of mechanism: a metal stand with a bunch of levers, pipes, and padded handlebars. All the pipes are at different levels and locations, and, as I near, I see that each pipe has measurement markings. Below them all is a bicycle seat. One of the orderlies starts positioning me, helping me toward the stand.

Maybe five yards away, the radiation machine waits, dormant. It looks like alien weaponry, a space cannon, eight or nine feet tall. At the end of what seems to be the weapon barrel, a chrome eye is angled, looking down unblinking. I can’t take my eyes off it, either, which makes me less sturdy than anyone’s happy with.

Once the orderly has guided me to the stand, two techs approach and split off, each heading to a side. They start applying these, these
things,
I don’t know what, but they’re foamy and big
.
Half-spherical, they go onto my shoulders with a
clomp.
Apparently they are clamps. Their purpose is to keep me in place.