The Return (8 page)

I know we get screwed at work because we're not white. But I think we're screwing ourselves with all the drugs we're taking. Look, you and I have been stoned since we were twelve. Haven't you gotten sick of it yet?"

Carol stared at her dumbfounded. "I don't know. I guess."

"I'm sick of it. I'm not getting loaded again, ever."

"But you'll still smoke pot now and then, won't you?"

"Carol. I'm not taking anything. And I don't want you to, either."

Carol was annoyed. "Right, great. If I don't want to be Miss Purity, I can't be your friend anymore. You know it, Jean, you might be nicer nowadays, but you're also turning into a royal pain in the ass."

"I didn't say you couldn't be my friend anymore. It's just that every time you light up a joint around me, I'm going to throw it away. And you won't be able to stop me 'cause I can kick your ass any day." Jean smiled sweetly. "But I still love you, Carol."

Carol put the car in gear. "Thank God for that."

They headed for the hospital. The day was hot and Carol's air-conditioning hadn't worked since the last ice age. Jean rolled down her window and looked at the houses she had seen every day of her life. Somehow, it was as if she were seeing them for the first time. It was true, most of them were in poor shape, but Jean could see the potential there. Everywhere she looked, she saw all kinds of possibilities.

"How long are you working at the hospital?" Carol asked.

"Three hours. That's all they'll let me with my injuries, and I had to push for those."

"Why are you doing it?"

"So I can steal hospital drugs."

"But you just said you don't want to get loaded anymore?"

Jean laughed. "Mensof See what all that mota has done to your brain? I'm not going to steal drugs. I volunteered to work at the hospital because they need help. That's the only reason." Carol was impressed. "That's neat. Maybe you'll get to give some way-cool girl or guy a shot in the ass."

Jean couldn't stop laughing. "They don't let candy stripers give shots. Certainly not to way-cool girls and guys."

"Well, I don't know what they do."

"Tell me what's happening with you? Why are you going out with a guy?"

"He's not exactly normal, you know."

"I understand that. But he is a he. That makes him different from a girl."

Carol giggled. "That's true."

"Look, are you still a lesbian or not? I just want to know for future reference. If you're not, then I can quit defending you."

"Does it bother you to defend me?" Carol asked.

"No. It turns me on. But answer my question."

"I don't know the answer. I just know I like this guy. But I still like girls. Maybe I'm bisexual." Carol paused. "Does that gross you out?"

"No," Jean said honestly. "It makes you complex. I like that in a boy or a girl."

Carol nodded. "I like to think it gives me color."

"Just remember that a guy can get you pregnant where a girl can't."

"I have you to remind me of that." Carol paused.

"Will you get to help Lenny today?"

Jean sighed. "I don't know if I can help Lenny. I've seen him every day since I woke up, but he hardly talks to me. I keep thinking he'll feel better when the bones in his back have healed enough so he can start physical therapy. Lying in bed all day would depress anybody."

"When will he be able to get into a wheelchair?"

"Not for a while. Another couple of months."

"That long?"

"At least. Where his back broke, they had to fuse the spine together. That takes time to heal."

"Will he ever walk again?" Carol asked.

Jean hesitated. "The traditional medical answer is no. That's the answer he's supposed to learn to accept. But I don't believe it. I can't help but think his condition is only temporary." She shook her head.

"Maybe I'm just fooling myself."

"I hope he gets better. Hey, have you seen Darlene lately?"

"No. She never talks to me. She never came to visit me at the hospital. What's with her?"

"I think she still plans to go after Juan," Carol said.

"After all that's happened? You can't be serious."

Jean was thoughtful. "I'd like to talk to her more about what happened that night Lenny and I got hurt. You know, weird as this may sound, I don't even know if she was still there when we fell."

"I think she was," Carol said. "I think she's the one who called the ambulance."

"But you're not sure?"

"No. What does Lenny say?"

"That he can't remember."

"Do you believe him?" Carol asked.

Jean shrugged. "I don't know why he'd lie to me."

She added, "We can't let Darlene go after Juan. It would be a death sentence for her."

Carol looked worried. "Maybe for all of us."

Carol dropped Jean off at the hospital twenty minutes later. She was going to spend the day with Scarface, and Jean assured her she could take the bus home. Actually, Jean liked riding the bus, especially since her accident. It was a good place to meet people. Her candy-striper duties were simple: she delivered meals to patients. But even this job turned out to be complex with the elderly patients. Not one but two old women thought she was their granddaughter. At first Jean denied the relationship, but when she saw how much it meant to the women to have a visit from a granddaughter, Jean decided to play along, reminiscing about events she had no memory of and adding details the women had no minds to doubt. On the whole she had the most fun with the senior citizens and children. Really, helping people got her high, and somehow she had known it would happen.

The patient who affected her the most, though, was a teenage girl named Debra Zimmerer. She was eighteen, the same as Jean, and dying. Just before Jean delivered her food, the nurses told her that Debra had leukemia, and they felt she wasn't going to make it When Jean brought in her tray, she found Debra lying in bed and reading J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings, which Jean had read in the hospital. Debra was worn-out pretty, with faded brown eyes as weary as those of a sick model in an old oil painting. She was five feet five and weighed maybe eighty pounds. Jean took one look at her and felt a painful stab in her gut, but somehow she managed to smile as she set down the tray.

"Awesome book, huh?" Jean asked.

Debra set the fat book aside. "I guess. I'm just nearthe beginning."

"Keep going. It keeps getting better and better. In fact, I think it's the best story I ever read." Jean lifted the lid off her plate. "Would you like something to eat? I brought you chicken, but if you don't like it they have some kind of fish."

Debra sat up weakly. "I'm not that hungry."

"How about something to drink? I have apple juice or orange juice or ginger ale."

Debra nodded. "I could drink some ginger ale."

Jean opened the can and poured Debra a glass. Debra's voice was dry, which Jean understood to be a side effect of the morphine she took to control the pain. Debra lifted it to her lips and took a sip. The act seemed to exhaust her, and she put down the glass quickly. Jean sat on the bed beside her.

"Is there anything else I can get you?" Jean asked.

Debra coughed. "No."

Jean patted her on the back. "Are you OK?"

Debra nodded and wiped at her colorless lips. "Yes."

Jean shook her head. "That was a stupid question. I'm sorry, of course you're not OK." She paused. "I heard you have leukemia."

Debra watched her. "Yes. It's a drag. What's your name?"

"Jean. You're Debra, right?"

"Yes." Debra glanced at the book. "Could you tell me how the story ends?"

Jean forced a smile. "I don't want to do that. It'll spoil it for you." Then she stopped, hearing what Debra was really asking her. It was a long story, really three books in one. Debra was not going to live long enough to finish it and she knew it. "But if you want me to, I can. I can do it today after I finish delivering these trays."

Debra stared at the far wall for a moment. "How about tomorrow? That would be a good day for me.

Jean nodded. "I can come tomorrow evening and tell you the whole story." She added, without even thinking about what she was going to say, "Maybe I can tell you one of my stories as well."

Debra was interested. "Do you write stories?"

Jean shrugged. "I'm only working on one so far. It's about this famous writer and her muse. Only her muse is a troll who appears out of her bedroom closet one day and demands half her royalties. I'll tell you what I have of it so far and you can tell me whether you think I should bother finishing it."

"OK." Debra lowered her head. "It'll be nice to have a visitor."

"Doesn't anyone come to see you?"

"Just my father. But I can't talk to him because he's too scared about me being sick." Debra hesitated.

"He's afraid I'm going to die."

Jean spoke gently. "Are you afraid?"

Debra raised her head and wiped her nose. "Yeah. I know it's going to happen, but I'm still scared. My doctor told me." Again she stared at the far wall. "I have no idea what it's going to be like." She shrugged.

"Maybe it won't be like anything. Maybe I'll just be dead and that will be it."

"No," Jean said firmly. "Your body will die but you'll go on."

Debra smiled sadly. "I wish I had your faith."

It was Jean's turn to hesitate because she really didn't know what she wanted to say to the poor girl. But at the same time she felt compelled to speak, and she believed that what she would say would be the truth.

"It's not that I have faith. I just know that your time of death is no more important than when you change your clothes. Don't ask me how I know. I can't explain it. The main thing is, when death comes, you don't need to be afraid. That's important. Fear is the only thing that can hold you back."

Debra listened. "Hold you back from what?"

"From going on to more joy. It's a lot harder to be born than to die. You'll see, and when you do, you'll say to yourself, 'That foolish girl in the hospital was right.'"

"Are you a fool?"

"Sure. But you know, only fools get into heaven."

Debra grinned. "Who told you that?"

Jean stood up quickly from the bed. Debra's question had a profound effect on her. For a moment Jean felt as if there were two of her standing in the room, one visible, the other a reflection. She felt as if she should be able to glance over her shoulder and see her other half to answer Debra's question. She felt inexplicable joy even with a dying girl watching her.

"Someone wise," Jean said softly, turning away.

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"I hope so," Debra said with feeling.

It was inevitable that when she finished her shift Jean would go and stand at the end of Lenny's bed and try to think of something inspiring to say. Lenny had been moved to a normal room with the motorized bed that allowed him to be rotated without the assistance of four nurses. At present, thankfully, he was lying faceup and she was able to address him rather than his scarred back.

Unfortunately, no words of wisdom came to her and he had yet to open his eyes despite her saying his name several times. She heard her mother's words in her mind and had to convince herself they weren't true.

"I can leave if you want me to," Jean said finally.

"But you're going to have to tell me to leave. Otherwise I'll just stand here feeling awful. But maybe that's what you want, Lenny, I don't know."

He opened his eyes. "You should know by now what I want."

Jean stepped closer, touching his bare arm. This room, like his previous one, was warmer than normal. Probably because they kept him scantily dressed to make it easier to care for him.

"What do you want?" she asked reluctantly.

"To die," he said flatly.

There was anguish in her voice. "No."

"Yes." Finally he looked at her face. "I can't live like this. You say you love me, Jean. If you do, then help me end this."

She clasped his right hand. "You just have to hold on for a little while longer.

Soon you'll be in a wheelchair and able to get out. I'll take you to the beach. I'll take you to the movies. You can't imagine how many great films have come out since you've been in here. I can show you—"

"You can take me," he interrupted. "You can show me. That's true because I can't do any of those things without you. But how long will you be there? You say forever but we both know that's B.S. One day you'll get tired of pushing a cripple around and you'll meet some other guy and then you'll say, 'I'm sorry Lenny but you know it's a tough world.' Then you'll leave, and what'll I do? I'll tell you. I'll kill myself. But why should I have to wait for the day we both know is going to come? I don't want to go through the pain. I want to do it now. I want you to help me."

Jean wept "I won't leave you, I swear to you."

Lenny strained to move his head as close to hers as he could. "You can get what you want if you keep your eyes open and move fast. A bottle of sleeping pills, a dozen packaged shots of Demerol—either of these would be enough to kill me. Are you listening to me, Jean? If you don't help me you just make it harder for me. I'll have to slit my wrists. No, that will be too slow. I'll have to cut my throat. The blood will be all over the place. You'll walk in here one day and the walls will be sprayed with red and—"

"Collate!" she cried.

Lenny let his head fall back. "I'm going to do it. You know I'm going to do it."

She sighed, her tears sprinkling his arm. "You must have some reason to live."

"None."

"Don't say that."

"I want to die today."

"Lenny."

"Right now."

"Damn you! You have to give yourself time. If you can't think of a reason to live, then you have to find one. Think, Lenny, of everything and everyone in the world. Think of something you want to do. Hold on to that, at least until you get out of here." She squeezed his hand, a desperate note in her voice. "Can't you think of anything?"

He started to answer but then stopped, only staring at her for several seconds.

His expression became strangely blank. "Maybe," he muttered.