 |
I used to be an attorney specializing in mergers and acquisitions, but now I am a trembling rabbit in a dark hat, waiting for the sure hands of an elite heart transplant surgeon to pluck me from the night. And I am not the only one. We're all rabbits on this floor.
The optimism is thicker in some rooms than in others. In mine, though, there's nothing but regret, an oppressive curtain of what might have been. No one comes to visit. My ex-wife and son, even my colleagues in an office building on the other side of the city, have no idea I'm here....
*
When the pains began darting in and out of my chest again, I knew the time had arrived for my disappearing act. I had set all the pieces in place years ago, after the second bypass operation. When the pain returned, I had only to tell them I was retiring early and moving to the Caribbean, incommunicado from then on. Lawyers with lots of money can do this. That was one hundred days ago, or one thousand years ago, or perhaps it was just yesterday. In that time I have come to know well the procedures, equipment and staff of this fine hospital, but I keep my distance from the other rabbits. We exist in such tight quarters already, passing each other's doorways several times a day, pushing or pulling the machines that monitor and sustain us, staking claims to the visitors' lounge for special occasions, waiting perhaps for the exact same heart. The same goddamned heart. When it is my turn, I won't think about the others.
"Good evening, Mr. Cain."
Christ. Father McConnell. He's new, having come around earlier in the week. He is too noisy, too gregarious. He takes up a lot of space in my already crowded room. He should have something better to do on New Year's Eve, like hear the confessions of repentant souls or say mass or run a bingo festival. (The Savior Is Born! Win CA$H & Valuable Door Prizes!)
"Good evening, Father," I say, sitting up higher against the pillows and pressing the remote to turn off the TV.
McConnell pats the side of his head, smoothing his own thick black hair, nodding to me to do the same.
"Your hair," he says.
I run a hand across gossamer salt-and-pepper strands, thinking too much has been lost for a forty-two-year-old. Way too much. McConnell pulls up a chair.
"No family tonight?"
"They'll be here later," I lie.
"One son, right?"
"Yep. Eight years old," I say, anticipating his question.
"It'll be a late night for him," says McConnell. "I remember when I was that age. I begged my parents to let me stay up until midnight, and they finally gave in, but of course I fell asleep well before then. I had this idea that something magical happened, that there was more to it than just the ticking of the clock from one day to the next." He chuckles. "I still believe there's something special about each new year. Although Easter is more appropriately a holiday of rebirth -"
"Excuse me, Father, but I've got to use the lav," I say. "If you don't mind."
"No, not at all." He stands and pushes the chair back against the wall under the window. "Would you like a blessing before I go?"
There's an awkward pause. I don't care about being blessed. McConnell wants to be the magician even though he's incapable of giving the only words I want to receive: "It's a match. You have been chosen." But I won't insult the man this evening, so I barely move my head to accept his offer. Moments later I feel the blessing bang against me - I don't know exactly where - and slide off to the side. Maybe it's lost in the blankets. Maybe it hits the floor. I don't know. I don't care.
I swing my legs to the side of the bed and shake his hand. He glides away while I shuffle to the bathroom.
When I come out, Sharell is there. Of all the nurses, she tries the least to reach me. That's why I like her best. She has four children by four different men. I believe her when she says they are good kids and the oldest is applying to top-notch colleges. She is large and steady. I will help her when I go, however I go.
I make it to the cabinet next to the bed, touch it for support, take a long draw on the oxygen tubes stuck up my nostrils.
"You O.K., Mr. Cain?"
I shake my head, and she is next to me, her left arm around my waist. I sink into her side for one moment of relief, then finish my journey to the bed. She helps to turn me and lowers my body onto the sheet.
"The party's really rockin' and rollin'. You ought to see Mr. Burnham and his family. They're all in gowns and tuxedoes, even his newest grandson. I can get you into a chair, whisk you down there if you'd like."
No, no, I wave my hand and ease back onto the pillows.
Burnham is one of those indefatigable optimists, always gushing platitudes. His entire clan - even the ones who have married into the family - can barely utter two sentences without mentioning the bright side and silver linings. They've all cheerily adopted his meatless, low-fat diet.
"I'll check back with you before the ball drops, or whatever it is they're doing this year," she says, laughing a little, saying just the right thing, not trying to be more or do more than she can. Beauty in simplicity, that's how I think of Sharell.
When she reaches the threshold, there's a commotion in the hall. I hear: "Burnham - yes, you! - it's here - now!" And there is a shriek followed by crying from the visitors' lounge. A few minutes later Burnham appears in my doorway on a gurney.
"I'm going in, Cain."
I don't say anything.
"Wish me luck, you sonofabitch."
His well-dressed relatives swarm around him, looking at me, waiting.
*
What did Burnham do to deserve another chance? He used to beat his wife - he admitted this when I first came in, when he thought we might be friends - but she never left him. She's right there, all wrinkly in the purple sequined gown with the plunging neckline, her hand resting on his shoulder. She must be the beautiful assistant who keeps getting cut in half - who looks like she's being cut in half - but always comes out of the box in one piece. And at the end of the night, she changes out of her costume and walks out, unharmed on the surface. How far below does her bitterness run? I search her face, her eyes, but she gives no clue. Still, I know the bile is there. It has to be there.
I give them the thumbs up, and they move on, satisfied.
When the last one disappears, I thumb my nose at the lot of them.
My throat starts to hurt. I lean over slowly and open the drawer next to the bed, looking for a lozenge but finding the papers left by Sharell a long time ago, when I first came here. The Do Not Resuscitate order. The organ donor form. Isn't that ironic? In the event I don't make it, they want to take anything good that's left in me. Hell, I don't blame them. That's not the reason I haven't signed the forms. I've lived by that same philosophy myself: Grab all you can get, whenever you can get it. No, I haven't signed because I don't see - will never see - a positive rate of return, and if I can't see the value of the deal, if I can't massage the projections to make it work, I don't do the deal.
I pull out the papers and set them on the rolling tray. Sharell has already signed the witness lines. At the time she said, "If you change your mind, just sign and date these. We don't have to talk about it again." She is the mind reader.
I check my watch. 11:48. She said she would return. I want to look outside. My chances of ever being outside dip with each passing hour. I press the remote to turn off the lights in the room. Even with the light from the hall and from a street lamp, it is darker inside than out. I struggle to my feet again and think hard to move them forward to get to the window, to get to the outside light. A man with a shopping cart sleeps on the grate beneath the light across the street. Mist rises around him. A police car stops. Two get out. One prods with his stick. They don't get too close. Can't they see that he wants to sleep - where it's warm - on that grate - in the light - where it's safe? It's so simple. A man and his meager possessions and the ground beneath him. Leave him alone! He wants to sleep where it's warm, there on that grate. He wants to be safe, there in the light. If you went closer you would feel what he feels! You would know! I want to yell the words, but I can't make them come out - my throat is tight now - so I bang on the glass. But they don't look up. They are six stories down.
The weight in my chest becomes too heavy. I don't know how many steps it takes to get back to the bed, panting, sweating, liquid running out of me. The clock says 12:01. Sharell didn't come in time, but that's all right. It's better this way. I claw at my chest and pull out the leads; they're useless now. Alarms go off. Then I know that Sharell is there, because I feel her. I still feel. I still feel as she puts the pen between my fingers. I know what to do. I can do this in my sleep. One.
J.P. Cain, Esq., Jan. 1, 2000.
Two.
J.P. Cain, Esq., Jan. 1, 2000.
Three.
And the rabbit is out of the hat.