Time Off for Good Behavior (4 page)

Her eyebrows knit.
“
We
’
re not playing any music.
”

I took a bite from the dinner roll. I had to admit it wasn
’
t bad. My stomach clam
ored for the real food, growling for more.
“
Then whatever you
’
re piping through the PA system.
”

She shook her head and gave a gentle laugh.
“
I don
’
t know what you
’
re talking about. We don
’
t play music here. It
’
s impossible to find something everybody likes
, and the way people complain...
”

“
Well, there
’
s something,
”
I said.
“
I keep hearing it.
”

She sat back and stared at me for a moment.
“
Should I get the doctor?
”

I shook my head, about to speak, but then the music faded in again.

“
See?
”
I said, motioning va
guely into the air.
“
Ugh. It
’
s driving me nuts. I know I know that tune, but it keeps fading out right when I
’
m about to place it.
”

I trailed off as the crescendo approached. Vera watched me carefully. It faded away.

“
Dammit. Do you know what that song is?
”

Vera stood up.
“
I
’
m going to go get the doctor.
”

“
No. Why? Is it his music?
”

Vera inhaled.
“
There
’
s no music.
”

I rolled my eyes at her.
“
What do you mean there
’
s no music? It was just right there, you heard it.
”

Vera shook her head.
“
There
’
s no music, Wa
nda.
”

I put my fork down. My stomach stopped growling.
“
Of course, there
’
s music.
”

She shook her head again and stood up.
“
I
’
m gonna go get Dr. Harland.
”

I waved my hand at her.
“
No. Don
’
t bother him at home.
”

“
He
’
s on today, I
’
m pretty sure,
”
she said, he
ading toward the door.
“
I just saw him about an hour ago.
”

I swallowed. Nodded. Vera left. I looked out the window, the streetlights blurring as my eyes teared up. Alone on my birthday. And crazy to boot. I could hardly wait for thirty-three.

***

I was r
eleased from the hospital a week later. The doctors were pleased as punch that I hadn
’
t suffered any major trauma, that I sailed right out of a light coma and into recovery. I still felt a little woozy when I got up fast, but they were sure that another t
w
o weeks of rest at home would be the best medicine.

“
And what about the music?
”
I asked Dr. Harland when he was regaling me with praise for my miraculous recovery. We were sitting on my hospital bed, waiting for the damn nurse to come with the damn wheelch
air and wheel me out of the damn hospital despite the fact that I could walk out of it on my own.

Damn rules.

Dr. Harland smiled at me. He was a
“
Go get
’
em, sport
”
kind of guy, and his perpetual cheerfulness
—
especially considering he was five foot one and
should have been good and pissed off
—
was rather unsettling for me.

“
The music?
”

“
Yes. The phantom music I keep hearing that no one else can hear. Remember?
”

“
Well, now, Wanda, the thing is... we
’
ve tested you for tinnitus
…”

“
It
’
s music, not ringing,
”
I sa
id through clenched teeth. I
’
d been hearing about friggin
’
tinnitus for the past week. I was sick to death of tinnitus.
“
I
’
m telling you, there
’
s music. I hear it. There must be a reason why.
”

He sighed, looking genuinely concerned. He was so earnest I wan
ted to smack him.
“
Wanda, we
’
ve checked your ears, and their physical condition is perfectly normal.
”

I could feel my nails digging into my palms as I clenched my fists.
“
Well, something
’
s going on. It
’
s not my imagination. I
’
m not dreaming it; I
’
m hearing
it.
”

“
Hmmm.
”
Dr. Harland pursed his lips.
“
Maybe we should get you an appointment with Dr. Angibous.
”

I raised my eyebrows. This sounded hopeful.
“
Dr. Angibous? Who
’
s Dr. Angibous? Some kind of ear specialist?
”

Dr. Harland gently shook his head.
“
He
’
s a p
sychiatrist.
”

“
I
’
m not seeing a shrink,
”
I growled.
“
It
’
s not in my head. I
’
m not crazy.
”

“
Of course not,
”
Dr. Harland said.
“
I
’
m not saying that. All I
’
m saying is, there is no
physical
reason for your condition.
”
He reached over and patted my hand.
“
You
could pursue it with a neurologist, but since the symptoms are slight and don
’
t really affect your functionality, you might save yourself time and money and just get used to it. Eventually, it might just go away on its own.
”

“
Go away on its own? Is that wh
at they teach you in medical school? If you have no fucking idea what
’
s going on, just tell the patient it
’
ll
go away on its own
?
”

Dr. Harland shrugged and smiled at me like the most angelic little human being on the planet, and all I wanted to do was shak
e him and yell,
“
You
’
re short!
”
until he got angry and bitter like a normal person.

But then the nurse arrived with my wheelchair, and I stepped in, complaining all the way to the hospital exit that I was perfectly capable of walking down the damn hallway
by my damn self.

Chapter Two

My 
apartment was a small, one-bedroom number with an open area for kitchen, dining room, and living room and just enough windows to make the builders free from liability for the clinical depression that tended to overtake t
he tenants in my building. It was the place I
’
d escaped to when George and I split, and although I could probably afford a nicer place, I stayed. I
’
d become a staunch subscriber to the
“
rainy day
”
theory of life. I
’
d had enough rainy days to know that more
were always coming.

I spent most of my recovery period reading. I have this thing about books. I think I got it from my mom. She used to read about five a week. When I was young, when my father was just starting his work with his practice in Manhattan, we
were dead broke. Dad worked a lot, and the commute into the city ate up a couple of hours each day, so mostly, it was just me and Mom entertaining ourselves. Every Wednesday we
’
d walk down to the library together and choose our books. She
’
d recommend her
favorites to me, classics like
Alice in Wonderland
and
Charlotte
’
s Web.
I
’
d usually choose a Judy Blume book just to bug her. She hated that I
’
d waste my time reading about children whose parents cared so little about them that they
’
d name them Fudge.

I re
member sitting in the living room with her, just the two of us, reading in silence. We each had our own chair flanking the standing lamp in the corner. She would curl up with a cup of tea and read
Anna Karenina,
which she read every summer. She
’
d cry every
time. To this day, I still haven
’
t read that book. I didn
’
t understand why people would want to read books that made them cry.

I was supposed to be recovering at home for two weeks on Dr. Harland
’
s orders, but within five days of my release from the hospi
tal, I was going bat-ass crazy in that apartment. I
’
d dusted the top of my refrigerator. I
’
d alphabetized my CD collection. I
’
d emptied out the bag of pill bottles and random et cetera I
’
d brought home with me from the hospital and lined them up in my med
i
cine cabinet by size. I even stuck Walter Briggs
’
s business card in the corner of my bathroom mirror, contemplating taking him up on suing the city, partly so I could have someone to talk to and partly because I, like Vera, would probably not kick him out
of my bed for eating crackers.

That was the final straw.

On Thursday morning, a good week before I was supposed to return to work, I got up, got dressed, and headed out to surprise my coworkers at Channel 8.

***

Channel 8 staked out the northern half of
a strip mall, while the southern half was occupied by a tanning salon and a florist, neither of which was advertising on our air. To me, that always summed up the character of the station: so pathetic that even our neighbors wouldn
’
t play with us.

I pushed
my way through the glass doors into the station. In its previous incarnation, it had been a furniture store, with white walls and gray carpeting that were intended to play bridesmaid to rolltop desks and oak dining sets. When Channel 8 moved in, they imm
e
diately put up gray cubicles in the open area to create a
“
team atmosphere.
”
The only atmosphere it created was that of a bunch of gophers living in a huge, dusty rice cake.

Susie Huffman, possibly the least savvy salesperson on the planet, was sitting at
my desk when I arrived, picking through my files with her long acrylic nails. Susie was twenty-two going on twelve. She actually believed potential clients when they promised to call her back once business slowed down. She cried an average of five to seve
n
times a week, although on occasion it worked for her. Tom Shelty, the owner of Hobby Hound Dog, was so freaked out by her crying all over his classic model car display that he
’
d signed an annual right on the spot.

Susie had been handling my clients for me
, and I dreaded finding out how little of my paycheck I
’
d be seeing for the next month or so. Hell, with Susie handling things, I might even owe the station money.