Lost and Found (6 page)

I hold Mel’s hand until the EMTs arrive and start working on him. The first thing they do is cut his jacket and shirt away. The smell that comes wafting out from his body can only be described as unholy. Belinda immediately pours about ten different essential oils on the pile of rotted material the EMTs put on the floor.

“Where is he going?” I ask, wondering if he’s going to make it as they bring him to the entrance of the store and put him on a wheely-bed. I have his clothing with me, even though I should probably just burn it. It’s actually stinky
and
sticky.

“Bellevue. You related to him?”

“Uh, no. Yes. Maybe.”

The EMT frowns at me like I’m annoying him. “Which is it? I need someone to sign off on this.” He stands next to the gurney and hands me an insurance paper attached to a clipboard.

“I’m his daughter-in-law,” I say, pulling the lie right out of my butt. “I don’t know all his details, though. We weren’t that close.”

“Just sign it and you can have your husband fill it in later.”

“He’s dead.” Lies roll off my tongue like water off a duck’s back. I’m blaming it on extreme duress. “He died of … tuberculosis. Last winter. It was terrible. He was there one day and gone the next.”

“Oh. Sorry,” the EMT deadpans. “Just sign it and you can worry about that other stuff later.” With the help of his partner, he hoists the rolling bed up onto higher legs and starts wheeling it towards the waiting ambulance on the street.

“Is he going to be okay?” I say, following behind them. I have to jog to keep up.

“Can’t say.” The guy takes the clipboard from me and glances at it for a second or two before throwing it on top of Mel’s legs.

“His name is Mel?” the guy asks me.

“Yes.”

“You didn’t put his last name.”

I search through the gross coat that they cut off Mel’s body and feel something hard in a pocket. It’s a wallet and it has a Michigan driver’s license in it. “His name is Melvin Wallace,” I say, reading from the front of it. “Here.” I hand over the identification and wait for the EMT to finish using it. He’s stopped at the back of the ambulance, jotting down some things on the paper.

“Here,” he says, handing the ID back to me. “You should probably come to the hospital soon so you can make sure he gets taken care of.”

I snort. “What, are you saying … they’ll just put him in the parking garage and ignore him?”

He shrugs. “I’m saying he looks and smells homeless, and if you want him taken care of, you should let them know he’s not.”

I’m struck dumb by that sickening fact. I could just picture Mel out in the parking lot growing sicker by the minute. It sounds like something that could happen these days.

“Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I’m done at work.”

“Good. See ya.” He gets into his truck without another word and takes off with a wail of sirens trailing behind him.

Chapter Ten

BELINDA WAVES AT ME A half hour later. “Go. Go to the hospital. You’re no good to me here.”

“Really?” I run into the back room and grab my bag. “Are you serious?”

She hugs me and pats me on the back. “I’m sorry I was so mean to him.” I can tell from her tone she’s trying not to cry. It makes me start to cry just hearing it.

“Don’t worry about it. He does smell really bad.”

“I’m going to have to set off an ozone bomb in here. Might as well start now. I’m going to close the shop early and leave it closed through tomorrow. Come back on Friday, okay? And keep me posted on Mel. I hope he’s going to make it.”

I nod, not trusting my voice enough to try speaking. Hooking my bag over my shoulder, I run from the store all the way to the bus stop. By the time I get there, I’m sweating like a pig.

Sweaty girl strikes again.

But I do not care one bit. I’m freaking out that Mel’s going to die, and I realize now that I hadn’t even bothered to find out his last name before, in all the months I’d known him. What kind of person am I? Not a good one. No wonder I can’t pay my rent. Asshole alert.

The bus ride takes a half hour with all the traffic, but I make it there in time for visiting hours.

“Mel Wallace,” I say to the volunteer manning the front desk. She’s wearing a painfully bright, reddish-orangish smock over her clothes. “He was brought in a couple hours ago by ambulance.”

The old lady lifts her heavily colored-in eyebrow. “And you are?”

“I’m his daughter-in-law. Leah. His son is dead, so I’m all he has.”

She stares at me.

“Tuberculosis. Last winter.”

She keeps staring at me.

“We were only married for few months when it hit him. He was one of those doctors-without-borders guys. He caught the disease in Zimbabwe.”

“He wasn’t vaccinated?”

I pause at that question. I have to admit, it’s a valid one. “Yep, he was, but this was a tropical strain. They said it was really rare. He almost made it but then his system just shut down. There was nothing they could do.”

I send up a quick prayer to the universe that karma will not see fit to punish me for the whopper lies I’m telling. I can’t seem to stop myself, though. The more she stares at me disbelieving, the more I feel the need to elaborate. I’m sweating again, but does that stop me? No. Of course it doesn’t.

“His fingers and toes all turned purple,” I say. “It was really sad because he was a pianist and when he couldn’t play anymore it broke his heart.”

“Did you want to visit your father-in-law or not?” she asks.

“Um … yeah. That’s why I’m here.”

“Take this. Put it on your shirt. Don’t go anywhere but to his room.”

I take the sticker she gives me and look at it.
Leah Wallace.
I don’t bother telling her that I didn’t take my fake-husband’s last name.

“And where would that be?” I ask.

“Fourth floor. Room four-oh-eight. He’s in critical care so you can only stay for twenty minutes.”

“Okay, thank you. Thank you very much.” I turn around and at the same time peel the sticker from the backing and look down so I can put it in a clear spot on my shirt.

As I round the corner towards the elevators, I’m stopped short by a person coming from the other direction.

“Whoa, sorry about that,” I say, sidestepping to avoid a collision.

“You,” says the voice from above me. “I can’t believe it. Are you stalking me or something?”

I just stare at him with my mouth hanging open.

There he is again. That annoyingly overdressed, Fifth Avenue asshole who cannot look where he’s going to save his life.

“Excuse me, but I’m here to see a
patient
.” Indignance makes me sound like someone who went to Haaaavard. “What’s your excuse for almost knocking me over again?” I gesture at his suit, suggesting that he has no business being in a hospital dressed like that.

He opens his mouth to answer but I cut him off.

“Never mind. I totally don’t care.” I leave him standing there and walk into the elevator that opens up just in time. Three more people come in after me and then someone hits the Door Close button to send us on our way. Goodbye, Butthead, and good riddance. It’s annoying how good-looking he is. What a waste. Jerk.

Mel looks better than he has in a long time. His beard is gone and his face has some bandages on it. His hair’s been totally shaved off, leaving him bald, and there are a couple bandages on his scalp too.

“What the heck?” I say as I draw closer. He really looks good, all things considered. I could imagine him being a pretty handsome guy back in the day. But why is he bald? Did he ask for a haircut when he arrived? Do they give free haircuts at the hospital? No, they’re probably not free. That shave probably set him back five thousand bucks.

“Can I help you?” a nurse asks, coming in the door behind me.

“Um …” I turn around to face her, totally confused. “What happened to his hair?”

“Had to shave it off. He had a very bad case of lice.”

“Oh.” I swallow with difficulty. I swear I can feel them crawling in my own hair as soon as the word lice is out of her mouth.

“And he has some very infected wounds. A man like him shouldn’t be living on the street.”

“A man like him?”

“Someone with diabetes. His wounds are bad. He has gangrene on his right foot. He’s probably going to lose at least the toes if not the whole thing.”

I have to sit down to get the room to stop spinning.

The nurse comes over and puts her hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry. You’re his daughter, aren’t you? I can see the resemblance.”

I nod, too numb to correct her or really speak at all. His feet are rotting off? How does that happen in this day and age? And why didn’t I help him more? And how was he even walking? Is that what I was smelling? Oh my god. I’m going to be sick.

“I’m sorry if I came off all harsh on you,” the nurse says, “I just hate seeing people get in this kind of condition.”

I nod, swallowing a few times to keep the bile where it belongs. “Me too.” I look up at him and start to cry. “I had no idea.” My heart is aching. Why am I such a jerk?

“Don’t beat yourself up about it. Some of these vets just can’t get over what they saw and did over there. Doesn’t matter how much their family loves ‘em, they just can’t deal. Don’t blame yourself.”

“Okay.” My answer is lame, but I’m too upset to make sense of my own brain let alone this conversation. War sucks. I hate war. I hate diabetes. I hate gangrene.

“Just hit the red button on his bed if you need me. I have four other patients I need to deal with right now, so I can’t stay to chat.”

I stand up as she leaves and move closer to the bed. I’m seeing Mel in a completely different light right now. He’s a veteran? With diabetes? And his foot is going to fall off? Oh my god, that’s so gross. And so awful. And so unfair.

I force myself to look down at the bottom of the bed, but his feet are under the covers. I feel guilty being grateful for that.

He moans.

I put my hand on his arm. “Mel?”

“Shhmarple fat dlerbin.”

“I know you feel like shit, but I want you to know I’m here for you.” I lean in closer and talk kind of loudly in his ear to be sure he can internalize what I’m saying. “I told them I’m your daughter-in-law and that your son died of tuberculosis. Just go with it, okay? Otherwise they probably won’t let me visit.”

“Godchen verbindoser.”

I pat him on the chest. “I’m going to take that as a yes.”

A woman I haven’t seen before puts her head in the door. She’s wearing one of those awful headache-inducing red smocks. “Visiting hours are over. Five-minute warning.”

I nod and then lean down to kiss Mel on the cheek. For once he doesn’t smell like terrible things. Now he has more of a bandaid odor to him, and it’s a big improvement. I make a mental note to bring some essential oils with me next time I drop by. “See you tomorrow … Dad.”

He doesn’t respond, but his mouth twitches up in what I’m going to interpret as a smile.

I leave him there, trying to figure out what the hell is happening to my life. It feels like I’m being tested, but at the same time I’m pretty sure I’m failing that test. I wonder what else could possibly go wrong. I also start to worry that the stupid ring in my purse has some seriously bad juju associated with it that’s starting to rub off on me. I need to get rid of it fast.

Chapter Eleven

AS I LIFT MY FOOT to mount the stairs to my apartment, Larry’s door opens to my right.

“Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in,” he says, leaning in the doorway. He’s wearing an old wife-beater undershirt, a pair of blue satin boxing shorts, and flip-flops with high white socks. Yes, he has managed to mold the flip flop straps around his toes
with
the socks on. It’s quite a look. Not a good one. Not on any guy, in any situation, in any country.

“Not now, Larry, I’m not in the mood.” I seriously could slap him in the face and not care one bit. I have a lot of built-up negativity in me. I’m turning into a monster.

“You wanna come in and watch the fight with me?”

His response is not what I was expecting. It has the effect of making me decide not to slap him. Not right this second, anyway.

I grab the railing and use it with both hands to haul my tired body up the stairs, one step at a time. “No, I don’t want to come in and watch the fight with you.”

“You wanna come in and do something else with me?”

I roll my eyes, but this time I don’t get angry. Larry reminds me of Mel — one of society’s cast-offs. Someone who might just be a little bit misunderstood. My heart spasms in my chest and my feet refuse to climb any more steps.

I turn around and face him from above. “What’d you have in mind, Larry?”

He stands there for a few seconds in shock. Then he shrugs. “I dunno. Eat a bowl of ice cream or somethin’.”

I tilt my head to the side. Ice cream actually doesn’t sound half bad. “What flavors you got?”

“Chocolate, vanilla, rocky road…”

“Get me a bowl of rocky road. I’ll be down in five minutes.”

“Really?” He sounds like he doesn’t believe me.

I turn back around and continue up the stairs. “Yeah, really.”

“Is this a trick?” he shouts up behind me.

“No, but if you harass me for the rent while I’m in there with you I’m going to shove the ice cream in your face.” I totally will. Right. In. His. Fat. Face.

“Okay. That’s a deal. I won’t mention it. We could watch a movie too if you want!”

“Don’t push it,” I say, unlocking my door.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll just get that bowl of ice cream ready for ya.”

Since I’m in no mood for any shenanigans from Larry, I put on my ugliest, most body-covering pajamas and my beat-up, once fuzzy but now matted slippers before going back downstairs.

“That’s a good look for you,” he says, opening the door wide so I can come in.

“Shut up.”

I’ve never been inside his apartment, always averting my eyes when he has his door open.
 
Before, I was afraid of what I’d see in there, but now I’m kind of curious.

I can tell he’s a hardcore Catholic right off the bat. There are four different sacred-heart Jesus paintings hung on the walls and a couple sets of rosary beads wrapped over the corners of two of them. Lace doilies cover pretty much every surface. There’s a cross hanging over the entrance to the kitchen, and the wallpaper is so busy I feel like I need to go jogging after looking at it for ten seconds.