Life Is A Foreign Language (9 page)

Nina stepped out of the car and took in the view on which poverty had left its stamp. Very few people were around, and only an occasional vehicle drove by. One billboard opposite the mall advertised the latest model in luxury cars; another offered your dream vacation on a cruise ship the size of a floating palace, both incongruous in this setting.

He steered her to the front door. “We share the mall with a thrift shop, a dentist’s office and a Laundromat.”

The writing on a shingle screwed to the door said “Family Medical Center,” and beneath it the hours they were open, “Mon-Fri 8 AM to 8 PM.” Sturdy metal bars covered the only window on the front.

Michael unlocked the door. Nina glanced at her watch, ten-twenty. “It’s the middle of the morning. Do you always keep the door locked?”

“Yes, it’s a must. We stock all kinds of drugs, and lots of addicts frequent this neighborhood. When the craving sets in, they’ll do anything to get their fix.”

He ushered her inside and locked the door.

“How do patients get in?”

“They ring the bell outside. We check them out before opening. At least we try, but sometimes someone nasty slips by. There are several alarm buttons scattered around. A touch on one of them rings 911. Usually the police are here within minutes.”

Nina tried to hide a shiver. This was so different from her world, sheltered by comparison. She’d worked with addicts and alcoholics, but had hardly encountered this level of despair and depravity. Her professional life had been protected from the real down-and-outers.

“If I ask questions I hope you won’t take it as criticism,” she said. “I’m interested and I want to try to understand how this type of medical service functions.”

“Ask anything you want. I won’t be offended.”

“You told me of the physicians and medical assistants. Do you have a psychotherapist or an addictions counselor?”

His sigh was audible. “We desperately need one or the other, but lack of funds limits us.” He shrugged.

Nina was more and more excited. She could see a potential opening for herself, but she decided not to say anything for the moment.

Michael kept his eyes on her, head cocked to the side, thoughtful.

They stood in the waiting room, furnished with groupings of white straight-backed chairs and low tables. The linoleum floor was mock red brick design, and the walls painted an eggshell white. A skylight let in the sun, making the room bright. The overall impression was clean and light, the room cool from air-conditioning and rotating ceiling fans.

In a corner of the waiting room “Touched by an Angel” played out on the TV screen, the sound turned down. Next to it stood a water cooler, and a nearby table held a large plate of cookies and two coffeepots—one half-full, the other filled to the brim. The plaster tape on the side of each said “Coffee” and “Decaf.” Styrofoam mugs stood in neat stacks.

The only patient in the waiting room, an overweight black woman, sat in one of the chairs, her heavy legs spread wide. Dark eyes almost disappeared in the fleshy folds of a round, shiny face. Her hair was short with hennaed highlights. An A-shirt covered sagging breasts.

The reception counter was to the left of the entrance where two round windows with perforated holes allowed conversation with the receptionist. Michael tapped a finger on one of the windows. The receptionist looked up from her work, and recognizing him, smiled, flashing white teeth.

“Hi. Still having fun on your vacation?” she asked.

“Great fun.” He half turned. “Nina, meet Wanda, our receptionist. She screens the patients before she lets them in.”

Wanda’s coal black eyes sparkled. “Hi. How you doin’?”

Smiling, Nina waved, then the ringing phone claimed Wanda’s attention.

“Come,” Michael said. “I’ll show you around before the place gets too busy.” He led her through a door to the clinic interior, pointing at two rooms along each side of a hall, illuminated by neon lights. “We’ve four examining rooms, although ‘room’ is an exaggeration—cubicle is more like it.”

The sign on two of them said “occupied.” Through the open doors of the other two she saw the standard examination table covered by a white paper sheet. A plastic chair and a small desk completed the furniture. Charts on the human anatomy hung on the walls in both rooms.

Michael guided her through a short corridor to yet another room. “This is my domain.”

The room didn’t bear any resemblance to the others. More like a playroom, it lacked the stark medical aspect. Toys and building blocks lay scattered on the floor. Groups of colorful Walt Disney figures adorned one wall. Small chairs, each in a different color, surrounded a low red table covered with cartoons and storybooks. Michael’s desk and swivel chair stood by the window. An airy and sunny room.

Nina pointed at a tall glass jar filled with lollipops on his desk. “Candy to keep your young patients happy?”

“Yes, and to reward them when they’ve been good. Or not so good. Makes no difference, no kid walks out of here without a treat.”

Moved by his kindness, she squeezed his hand.

At the other end of a short corridor, opposite his office, was a doorless toilet, the water in the toilet bowl cobalt blue. The wash basin with only a cold water faucet was on the outside. “Very efficient,” she said. “You’re not taking any risks that the urine samples for drug testing will be contaminated or diluted with water.”

“Don’t you do drug testing in France?” he asked.

“Sure, we do.”

By the door to the waiting room they ran into a man dressed in a short white coat.

“Hi,” he said in a deep, slightly husky voice.

“Hi,” Michael said, and to her, “Nina, meet Craig Clark, our GP.”

They smiled, exchanging a casual “Hi, how are you?”

Craig was tall, well over six feet, and broad in the chest. His head was large, almost round, very bald and very shiny. With a discrete gesture she coughed behind her hand to hid a smile.
Kojak without the lollipop.

Michael preceded her to the waiting room. During their brief tour it had filled up.

“This is the unpredictability of a walk-in clinic,” he said. “Not a patient in the room, then before you know it, it’s crowded.”

Patients of all ages, men and women, mostly African-Americans took up every vacant chair. Some drank coffee out of Styrofoam cups, others held soda cans. One old, very skinny man munched on a cookie with toothless gums and took sips from his mug. Some leaned against the wall in an attitude of quiet patience. They seemed content to sit or stand in the cool of the room. Some read. Others watched TV. A young woman breastfed a baby. Nina couldn’t detect the usual restless frustration at waiting, nervous apprehension to meet the doctor.

A young boy, who looked almost emaciated, pushed himself off the wall where he’d been slouching. An orange knit cap covered his dreadlocks, a bare knee showed through torn jeans, the T-shirt sleeveless. He ambled toward Michael in a stooped walk, arms swinging. His dark bony face with high cheekbones lit up in a smile so warm, so joyful it seemed to brighten the room.

“Hey Mon,” he said. “How ya bin?” The dreadlocks and his dialect hinted at a Jamaican origin. His voice was that of a boy on the cusp of becoming a man.

Moving even closer he put one graceful, long-fingered hand on Michael’s chest.

Michael covered his hand with his own. “Bin good. How’s you?”

“Not bad, Mon, not bad t’all.” Keeping his hand flat against Michael’s chest, he took Michael’s hand and pressed it against his own chest. It was a gesture of affection and—yes, reverence. The moment passed, and the boy stepped back.

Michael’s smile radiated love, a mirror image of the boy’s obvious fondness for this man.

“Have you had your shot yet?” Michael asked.

“No, bin waitin’ for you, Mon.”

Michael turned to Nina. “Excuse us a minute, will you? Be right with you.”

She nodded.

They disappeared inside the clinic.

The scene she’d witnessed moved her in a profound way. She didn’t try to analyze what she’d seen, the shared history evident between the two.

Nina stood at the window, her back to the room, waiting for Michael. Presently, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned. Before her was the young boy, cap in hand, wearing a smile that made his beautiful dark eyes sparkle.

He held out his hand. “I’m Marley.”

Nina put her hand in his. “Nice to meet you, Marley. I’m Nina.”

“I knows. You Mon’s woman.” A statement.

“Yes.” She didn’t know what else to say.

Again his smile beamed. “He good.”

He touched off nostalgia and longing deep inside her. Maybe it was the memory of Danny at this age. On impulse, she reached to brush her lips against his cheek, the skin a bit bristly from young hair growth.

For a brief instant, he held the palm of his hand against her cheek. Then he was gone.

The exchange took only moments and seemed unreal. She wondered about him … who he was, where he came from, what ailed him to need medical care.

Michael returned to the waiting room. Nina watched as he made his way across the floor, stopping to listen, say a word or two to some of his patients. While he talked to one of the them, a toddler on the floor was playing with the laces to Michael’s sneakers. He bent to pick up the little boy, and made him laugh by burrowing his face in the child’s neck. As he handed the child to the woman accompanying him, he said something that brought a smile to her young face, eyelids bluish from fatigue, deep furrows bracketing ragged lips.

Michael reached Nina. As they were leaving, she meant to ask him about Marley, but he was in a hurry to be gone. From the door she waved at Wanda, still busy on the phone; she smiled back and wiggled her fingers in return. Michael locked the door from the outside.

The sky had turned menacing. Heavy dark clouds hung overhead, the air still and muggy.

Chapter 10
 

Michael drove out of the parking lot, the midday heat shimmering on the asphalt. He turned the music low. “Would you like to stop for lunch?”

Nina made a quick mental inventory of the fridge at home. “Yes. That would be nice.”

Halfway through town he made a left turn, and drove through a vast park with winding footpaths and tall shady trees. He parked next to a round building overlooking the wide Caloosahatchee river, its water rapid.

Inside the restaurant it was pleasantly cool. A server approached. “Smoking or non?” she asked.

Nina glanced at Michael. “Smoking.”

“Non,” he said, and they both laughed.

The server showed them to a window table in the smoking section overlooking the river, the boat traffic brisk. A candle and vase with silk flowers sat on each table. Insect netting replaced windowpanes. Ceiling fans churned the air, filled with the delicious aroma of olive oil and garlic, making Nina’s mouth water.

They both ordered the chef’s salad and ice tea.

Nina sighed with contentment. “I like your clinic. The atmosphere is comfortable, and I didn’t feel any of the nervousness you usually find in doctors’ waiting rooms. Your patients seem content to be there.”

“Glad you noticed. Many of them are homeless. The clinic represents shelter from heat in summer and cold in winter. They can wash and tidy up.” He covered her hand on the table.

“Not everybody who comes there is a patient. Some come to pass the time, to read the papers and watch TV. There is always free coffee and cookies.”

Their food arrived. Nina drank thirstily of her ice tea. For a while they concentrated on eating.

“Tell me about Marley.”

He didn’t answer immediately, but gazed though the window at the barges, rapid motor crafts and sailingboats. “Marley is a foundling, an abandoned child. Nobody knows his exact age or his origins. The police found him alone in the street. They brought him to the children’s hospital, where he was tested for all kinds of things. One of the tests put his age at about three years old, which means he is around twelve now.” He sipped his drink. “He didn’t even know his name. He slept in the weeds and ate out of dumpsters. He was treated for malnutrition and exposure.”

“How did you meet him?”

“At the time I worked in the hospital. Marley was assigned to me, and we bonded instantly. When he was released, he was placed in a county home. I visited as often as I could. During weekends, he stayed with me at my place.”

“He seems to adore you.”

Michael’s gaze held hers, his smile, gentle. “He’s like a son to me. He now lives with wonderful foster parents, a recent improvement on his situation. But he drops by the clinic almost every day.”

“Is he sick? I heard you ask him about his shot.”

He laughed. “I always try to have something for him, a book, a magazine on auto racing, a treat of some kind. ‘Shot’ is a secret word between us, meaning a gift of some kind.”

She took a sip of iced tea. “What’s with the dreadlocks and the Jamaican accent?”

“Marley doesn’t know where he comes from, who he is, who his parents are. When he read about Bob Marley, he became an instant fan. He learned about Jamaica and so he’s created his own persona.”

Intrigued, she asked, “Did he decide he was Bob Marley?”

“Not exactly. He asked me who he was. Naturally, I couldn’t answer, I didn’t know. He concluded that because he didn’t have a family, he was nobody. I convinced him he was luckier than most because he could choose who he wanted to be. He was, still is, crazy about Bob Marley, so, Bingo.” Michael snapped his fingers. “He became Marley from Jamaica.”

Moved by the story she covered his hand with one of hers. “What a wonderful idea—you gave him both an ideal and an identity. That’s beautiful, Michael.”
Such a sensitive man. He’s quite something.

He nodded. “Despite his past, Marley is surprisingly together, but he should have counseling. You’d be good for him. He needs the closeness of a mature woman, a mother figure, which I haven’t been able to provide. He’s lived too long with men.”

“Oh? What about the foster home? Isn’t there a woman?”

“Yes, but he’s been there only six months, too early for any serious bonding. And his foster mother is young and works part-time.