Bleeder (25 page)

When we hang up, I sleep soundly—at least until midnight when the cats wake me, mewing and jumping on my bed, reminding me that I forgot to feed them.

For several nights, I awake and my bed is soaked through. My shirt is wet. My boxers. My legs and arms. In the night, my whole body is a cloud of pouring rain and my bed a reservoir of perspiration. I wring out my clothes and drape them over the shower rod while I fish through my dresser drawers for dry clothing. My eyes are red-rimmed. My tongue thick and sticking dryly to the roof of my dry, dry mouth. Even water cannot help it.

“I cannot eat,” I tell the doctor. “When I try to swallow, my throat closes off and I gag.”

The ID doctor holds my tongue down with the depressor. “Yep. Esophagitis. The thrush has worsened. We can fix that with another drug that’s a bit stronger, and you should have your appetite back and be able to eat within a few days. I’m worried about that since your weight is down to 116. That’s pretty slim . . . Now more than ever, you need to eat.” He passes his stethoscope along my chest as I breathe in, breathe out. “Have you been keeping up with your Pentamidine?”

“Yes. I haven’t missed a dose since I started.”

“Good. There’s a little fluid in there, and I don’t want that to grow into anything like PCP, so I’m putting you on an antibiotic to take care of that.” He writes the prescriptions and passes this off to me. “Do you have any questions?”

I draw a hand up to my eyes. The doctor stands beside me and passes me tissue. “I’m scared. I’m really scared.”

“There’s a lot to be scared of,” he says. “I won’t lie to you about that. And I won’t tell you that I know how you feel or what you’re going through because I don’t. I can’t even imagine it. But I can promise you that we’ll give
you the best care possible. And, although it may not seem like it right now, I feel you’re in a really good position for treatment. It looks like the protease inhibitors are an effective treatment, and once the FDA approves them, which should be any day now, my feeling is that you’re going to respond.” I calm and dry my hands along my jeans, smoothing the creases with damp palms. “Just take the prescriptions I’ve given you, and you’ll feel better in a few days and I’m sure that fluid in your chest is just a little winter cold. It’s not anything to worry over just yet.” He starts gathering his things. “Call me whenever you feel like. I mean it.”

When our visit ends, I feel weighed down. Even my crying is no solace. I gather myself and exit into the lobby, wearing a brave mask as if nothing is wrong.

At home, I gargle. I swallow. And I stick out my tongue to the mirror and see the thin coating of fungus and the trace of it spreading down my throat. My face is sallow and carved tight round my cheekbones; my skin pockets near the mouth as if tiny invisible gumballs press around my teeth; and my eyes are dark, brooding, and sunken deep in the sockets. I raise my shirt to show a chest that is all bone and arms that are thin flaps of flesh. A fragile peel of skin shrinks round my body as wet tissue to a hand. The mirror does not lie.

I drop my pants to expose my only plump tissue, and to make myself happy for a time, I play, and when the moment ends, my plumpness shrivels into a congruency with the rest of my body.

I cough. I spit out a winter phlegm, thick and viscous. Then I feel chilled. I notch up the thermostat. My nose drizzles. My head hurts. My stomach aches. I feel flushed.

“I think I’m going to die,” I tell William on the phone.

“What? Are you sick?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happening. I just feel sick and tired and tired from feeling sick and tired.” I blow my nose on some tissue. I cry. “And I’m scared.”

“I’m coming to see you. I’ll be there tonight.”

The hours pass as I wait for William’s company. I huddle in my bed. I watch some TV. I pet the kitties. And when I hear footsteps outside, I spread
the blinds to see if it’s William, but, disappointed, I wait. When he finally arrives and I let him in, he surveys my apartment.

“Oh my God,” he exclaims. “You have got to get this place cleaned up. How many people are living here?”

“Just me and the kitties.”

“You shouldn’t be taking care of them. Your place looks like a disaster, and it smells awful.”

“I know. I’m too tired to clean it. I can’t do it anymore. I just can’t.”

I cry. William sits beside me on the couch and puts a soft hand to my back.

“We’ll get this place cleaned up. It’s going to be okay.”

He drives to Walmart and buys cleaning supplies, and when he returns, he scrubs and disinfects every corner of my small apartment while I stare vacantly out the window at the barren trees swaying in the cold breeze. And although the place soon smells as clean as the day when I first moved in, it is still just as blue.

Later, we purr along in William’s car, steering the Orange County back roads. The stars pierce the cold and the moon dangles like a giant orb in the black sky. The farmland, blanketed in night, appears as ashen silhouettes of barnlots and fenceposts, while a thin run of wire sometimes catches a flicker of headlight as we pass.

“I don’t know if you want any,” William says, “but I brought some smoke for you. I really think it would ease your pain and help you eat something.”

“So, if I do, are you going to use me for your legalization campaign? Is that it? I’m your medical marijuana case?”

“Funny . . . I’m just laying out the facts. The choice is yours.”

“I don’t think I’ve got much to lose, so, yeah.”

William pulls off onto a side road where a lone lamppost illuminates bluely as he idles the car and packs the bowl.

“Just breathe in like it’s a cigarette.”

“But I never smoked a cigarette.”

“Never . . . goddamn . . . Well, just breathe in and hold. Here, I’ll light it for you.”

“No, I can handle that. I’ve watched it plenty.”

The lighter flares. I inhale.

“Maybe one more time,” William says.

I inhale again. And then I cough uncontrollably.

“Okay, that’s enough. Here . . . drink some of my soda.”

He passes me his drink and William’s car purrs on as time soon melds into ribbons of darkness; a tingle of warmth puffs me up and floats me in the car seat.

“Where are we?” I ask, looking out at a dark wood of nothing.

“I don’t know,” William says. “But we’ll be somewhere eventually.”

We motor on underneath the canopy of night. A mosaic of pasture scrolls by as we speed along a deserted road where the trees, blunted by winter, stretch their spindly tendrils toward the sky, the moon, the stars.

“See that,” I say to William as the sparkle of city lights again envelops us. “Waffle House! I’m starving.”

He pulls in, gets out, and walks around the parking lot as if lost.

“What are you doing? Let’s go inside.”

“All right. I was just trying to figure where we are. Do you know where we are?”

“What difference does it make? Let’s eat.”

Inside, we slide into a booth and a grizzled lady with large yellow teeth strides over to us.

“Whataya’ll have?”

“Where are we?” William asks distractedly.

“This here’s the Waffle House, Son.”

Immediately, I begin to cackle uncontrollably. Oh, I’m laughing it up, holding my sides and feeling as my stomach tightens and starts to ache.

“Is he all right?” the waitress asks William. “Son, you all right?” she asks, eyeballing me.

“Yeah,” I say, calming my laughter. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“What town is this?” William asks.

“Just outside of Burlington,” the waitress says. “Where ya headin’?”

“Oh, nowhere really.”

“Uh-huh.” She taps her pen on her yellow pad. “So you and your skinny friend want somethin’ to eat?”

“Oh, yes,” I say. “Eggs. I want lots of eggs.”

“Okay,” the waitress says flatly. “Can you be more specific? How many and how ya want ’em?”

“Two,” I say. “No. Three. Scrambled. And can I get some hash browns? Double hash browns. Scattered and smothered.” I trail my finger down the menu. “Oh, oh. And a side of bacon. And some toast.”

“It comes with toast.”

“Oh, excellent. And a cup of coffee to drink.”

She turns to William. “And for you?”

“Just coffee.”

“Uh-huh. So you’re not hungry and your skinny friend is just back from Auschwitz.”

“Something like that,” William says.

The waitress leaves and calls the order to the cook. William catches my attention.

“You gotta calm down,” he says. “The whole place is watching you.”

“Okay, okay . . . I’m being weally, weally quiet.” I lower my head, peer about. “Are we hunting wabbit?” Another guffaw comes, and I can’t stop laughing. William slinks into the booth as I let out an endless string of giggles.

“I’m better,” I say, quieting myself. “I won’t laugh like that again. I promise.”

William rights himself and lights a cigarette, thumps the ash. “I know it’s good for you, but damn . . . Why didn’t you start in the car or something?” William glances around, puffs his cigarette, blows out smoke. “Good. Here comes your food. That’ll shut you up.”

A few days later, with William departed and me back in the work routine, I awake one night and race to the bathroom and pour my insides out. When it passes, I take my temp, but find I have none. Then the world dizzies, and I huff and gag over the toilet, while my head pounds terribly. Eventually, I return to my bed and place a damp cloth on my forehead, but then I must run for the bathroom again. And then again. And again.

By morning, it hasn’t stopped, so I call the hospital clinic, and they are, of course, concerned.

“You should come in right away,” Dr. Trum advises. “Headaches and vomiting trouble me.”

Too dizzy to drive myself, I call my sister in Raleigh, and after her concern eases, she agrees to carry me to the hospital. A half hour later we are unable to find the emergency room; we blunder through hallways under construction and wander around, following handmade signs until we then wait for an elevator that has a star indicating “ER—2nd Floor.” I lug around a small bucket just in case my stomach turns again.

“How’s your head?” Anne asks worriedly. She has been in a panic since she picked me up and whisked me to the hospital.

“It’s okay. I think it’s passing. I’m not that worried right now.”

“Well, I’m worried. You’ve been dizzy and throwing up since last night.”

“You didn’t tell Mom, did you?”

“No, but I felt like I should. She’s going to be concerned for sure.”

“Well, let’s just wait and see what it is. It could just be a small cold. Mom would have gone bonkers if I told her. That’s why I called you instead. Besides, you’re closer living in Raleigh.”

“Gee, thanks.”

The door opens and there stands Maria, the elevator’s only passenger. It is an awkward moment when we recognize one another. She wraps her white coat around herself and moves from the door for us to come in.

“What floor?” she asks. She gives my sister a thorough looking over and although I can sense her misinterpretation, I am too ill to correct her.

“Two.” I lean against the wall. Sweat beads on my forehead. “I forgot you worked here.”

“Yep. I do.” She places a strand of hair behind her ear. “I haven’t seen you in a while. Thought you were going to call.”

“I guess I’ve been busy. The holidays, you know.”

I want to add more, but we ride in silence, watching as the floor lights change from 1 to 2, and as the door opens and my sister and I exit the elevator, I turn to Maria.

“I’ll call you.” But my words are crippled before they leave my mouth.

“Okay, but you don’t have to say that.” She smiles. The door closes.

“Who was that?” Anne asks.

“Maria. We went out and I was suppose to call her back. I never did.”

“Oh.” Anne laughs. “What luck.”

At the emergency room, they page Dr. Trum and when he arrives, he checks my lungs, which are relatively clean, and shines a light in my pupils to check my response.

“It looks okay,” he says, “but I want to do a CAT scan on you just the same. Headaches and vomiting are not good signs for hemophiliacs. Head traumas are too deadly to play around with.” My breath stills. “It is probably nothing, but it’s always best to err on the side of caution.”

For the CAT scan, I lie flat on the steel-cold bed while a dye is fed into my veins. The electric lights hum, the doughnut contraption whirs, and the bed slides through the portal. My heart beats with the worry of what may be found: a tumor, a slow bleed in my cranium. Nothing I imagine brings me any comfort.