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She’s right, it’s not. Not even close. A few years back, she suffered a massive stroke, and though most of the time she almost seems to be talking in tongues, there are lucid moments with her, where I wonder if she remembers things from her past.
“I know it’s not.” Wrinkled skin brushes against my palm, as I stroke her hand and offer a sad smile. “I wish I could bring you home with me.”
“The angel …. He says I must confess before I go.”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I exhale a sigh. The woman was always what I’d call haphazardly religious when she had her wits about her. She’d do something questionable, feel guilty, and have her occasionalcome to Jesusmoments, none of which ever resulted in any committed church time. Ever since the stroke, though, church is all she talks about. Keeping a clean slate. Reconciling her sins.
“I’ll take care of it, Mamie.”
“And did you confess your sins,mon petit moineau?” Since I was small, she’s called me her little sparrow, a tribute to Édith Piaf, one of her favorite French singers.
“Not yet. I will. I promise.”
“That man is horrible. What he did to that poor child is so wrong.” Her words stir panic in my chest, and I lean to the side to make sure no one else has entered the room. “But you can be absolved. You don’t have to suffer for his sins.”
Out of a lifetime of memories I imagine are scattered throughout her brain like a kitchen junk drawer, where the hell did that erratic thought come from?
“You remember …Calvin?”
Lips snarled, she looks away from me, and for a moment, I think she’s going to go off on a rant about him. After all, she’s always hated him, probably more than me in the beginning. Instead, her face softens to a smile, eyes more rheumy than before. “You know who my angel looks like?”
With my mind still trapped by her random memory, I don’t bother to answer the nonsense that follows.
“Louis Jourdan. My favorite movie wasGigi. Do you remember we skipped class to watch it at the theater?”
It’s definitely not me she’s thinking of, but maybe a classmate of hers, since I wasn’t even born when the movie was in theaters. As she prattles on about the movie, my head slips into a memory of my own. A split second in my life that I wish I could go back and change.
I glance down at the medical record bleeding out all over my desk and arrange it in its proper order—patient information sheet, med history, physical exam, consent forms, physician’s orders, progress notes, consults, operative notes, pathology and discharge papers. After two years, it’s almost mindless for me. Which is good, because I started tonight’s shift with a letter from the city, informing me that my grandmother’s charitable efforts have not been appreciated by the City of Los Angeles for about a decade now. In other words, I’ve been issued a court order to pay the $40,000 in fines my grandmother accumulated for allowing the homeless to occupy a large plot of land. Fines she’s ignored in all her rebellion for long enough, it seems. Having spent most of the afternoon sobbing about it, I no longer have the mental capacity to think about that, let alone Alfred Miller’s hernia repair lying before me.
As I type the information into our filing system, a buzz jolts my muscles, so I end up typing ‘Me;oise’ instead of ‘Miller’.
The request counter is a Dutch door that we keep locked during second shift, but apparently the fact that it’s closed isn’t enough of a deterrent, and neither is theWE’RE CLOSEDsign set out on the other side, written in bold letters.
Ignoring it, I go back to entering the information, but the buzz sounds again.
Seriously? At this point, not answering it is just a matter of principal, and I suddenly wish I brought my earbuds to work with me.
Another buzz.
With a frustrated huff, I push up from my desk and swing back the door, revealing a man on the other side. In a crisp black suit that clings to his large build, he reminds me of a mafia dude, his hair slicked back, face free of any hair.
“We’re closed. I guess the sign isn’t all that obvious.”
“Sign?”
I glance to the door that would’ve faced him and cringe. “Okay, well, there’s usually a sign. But I’m telling you, we’re closed. You can come back tomorrow at eight, when we open again.”
“I’m afraid tomorrow doesn’t work for my schedule. I need to access a medical record tonight.”
“I’m afraid tonight doesn’t work withmyschedule. Have a good night.” I swing the door back, but it’s stopped short of clicking closed.
Fingers curled around the edge of it, he pushes it open, and a bolt of electricity tingles down my spine. “I’ll make you a deal.”
“No deals. And if you don’t leave? I’m calling security.”
“You don’t want to do that.”
Yet, my hand is already reaching for the phone on the desk below me. Subtly, of course.
