BOUNDARIES: A Louisiana Love Story (Post 18)

Chapter 8: Philip (continued)

In the ICU, there are no dreams, only a long, insincere rest. There’s the sensation of being in a cage. I don’t feel sick, only tired. There are three walls; what would be the fourth is a giant window people stare through as they pass.
     It’s a zoo.
     A plump young man dressed in white scrubs bursts through the half open door. He carries a silver bedpan and several towels in his arms. He is apparently the zookeeper.
     “Hello there!” He smiles and I cower. “I'm Philip, your nurse for the night, so please let me know if you need anything, anything at all.” My tired eyes flutter. He lays the towels on the end of the bed. “I can tell you’re just dyin’ to know what this is for.” He waves the silver bedpan in front of me. “I have another yummy drink for you,” he says as he pulls a clear bottle from between the towels. “This is a very special drink.” He winks and I know what he means. “You keep on restin’ but about an hour or so after you drink this, I guarantee, you’ll have to call a special meetin’ with my friend here,” he says, waving the bedpan again. “When you finish your business, just give me a buzz, okay?”
     I drink the laxative, close my eyes, and decide that I love the zookeeper for being so kind. He made light of an embarrassing situation. Throughout the night and morning hours, each time my eyes flutter open, he’s by my side asking if I feel compelled to call a meeting with the bedpan. Each time I say no until finally he strolls in saying, “If too much more time passes, I’m gonna be forced to go over your head. I’ll have to call an emergency meetin’, it you get my meanin’.” He winks again. “The issue has to be faced, one way or another.”
     This time I crack a smile.
     “I’m glad to see you happy,” my mother announces as she floats into the room with a grace and confidence that reminds me that she’s a woman and I’m still a girl. “You’re gonna be just fine,” she says. I wonder if she realizes this is the intensive care unit. I look around, thinking of those who died in my bed, the cage, a holding stall for those slated to move on, to change. The nurse seems to have forgotten that he watched them all die and my mother is acting as if I skinned my knee.
     They’re supposed to rescue me but they’re too busy smiling.
     “Oh, and Peyton, my friend’s name is Mr. Buttface,” the zookeeper says as he leaves the cage.
     My weak smile shrivels as I see the look on my mother’s face.
     “That’s terrible,” she says. “I don’t think they’re supposed to talk like that.” She sits on the side of the bed and strokes my eyebrows. Love filters through her delicate hands. I try not to cry. “I love you, Peyton so I have to be honest with you. You’re gonna have to forget about that boy.” Her fingers suddenly suck the love back like tiny vacuums. “He was tryin’ to do the right thang by callin’ your dad. You have to face reality. I know it hurts, but you cain’t keep on like this, chasin’ that boy around town when you should be doin’ whatever it is eighteen-year-old girls do these days.”
     I want to tell her that this is what they do sometimes, especially girls like me. “It’s not that simple,” I say, my tired voice barely audible. “I swear I’m not the only one with a problem. I called his mom a few weeks ago because I was scared.”
     My mother bends down, laying her heavy head on my chest. “Why were you afraid? Where’s all this comin’ from?”
     I stroke her back and wonder why I’m in the ICU. I don’t feel that sick, only tired and humiliated. “He was gonna call his lawyer and get a restrainin’ order against me.” Forcing myself to tell her is like wringing the last drop of water from a rag. “I just wanted … his mom to know … that there’s nothin’ wrong with me. I’m not some … kind of monster or animal. I don’t need to be restrained.”
     “And what did she say?”
     I can’t see her face, but I know she’s praying that Matt’s mother didn’t think her daughter was a monster. “She just laughed and said Matt doesn’t have a lawyer.”
     “Well, that doesn’t sound very nice.” She sits up and strokes my eyelashes again, trying to wipe away my invisible tears. But it’s useless.
     I force a smile. “She was nice.”
     My mother says, “There’s really a simple answer to all this.”
     I shove her hand away but then hold it, squeezing her fingers. “You should know. You’re the one who was obsessed with the preacher,” I sneer.
     “I’m an adult. And that happened partly because I was so wrapped up in the church. I’m much more balanced now.” She has an unnatural capacity to forgive herself. I wonder if the same trait blinds her from the truth.
     My father sticks his head in the door. “How’s my beautiful girl?”
     “Tom, please go away.”
     He instantly disappears.

     She pries her hand away and rubs it as if I’ve hurt her. “I know you’re not stupid,” she snaps. “You know everybody loves you. We’re all just worried. Grandmother and Granddaddy are just sick over this. And what about Peter? He’s the one I like. What’s wrong with him?”
     I roll my eyes. “They’re best friends, Mom. Peter is Matt’s best friend.”
     “Well, he seems to understand you at least.” She pauses and then says, “But your grandparents don’t understand.” My toes cross and curl toward the soles of my feet. I begin to sweat. Then she says, “I had to go ahead and tell ‘em everythang.”
     “What do you mean?”
     “About the abortion.”
     “Oh my God.”
     “Don’t say God’s name in vain.”
     “That was a secret.”
     As if it made perfect sense, she says, “I had to tell ‘em. They couldn’t understand why you’d want to kill yourself.” The words drift from her mouth as if my suicide attempt is a minor teenage incident. “You’ve got so much goin’ for you. They know you’re practically makin’ straight A’s in school. Do you realize how incredible that is with all you’re goin’ through, Honey?”
     “Why do you always tell my secrets?”
     “They’re not gonna judge you.” She makes a face and waves her hand through the air. “They love you.”
     “You don’t understand,” I whisper. “You told my secret. It was mine.”
     She looks down at the bed for several moments. When she finally looks up, tears are forming in the narrow corners of her eyes. “It’s my secret, too.”
     My forehead starts to sweat. Her tears are acid rain, destroying me, little by little, each time they fall. My stomach aches. I want to scream but instead I whisper, “Please, will you just leave me alone now?”
     “I know you don’t want to hear it,” she says, ignoring me, “but the truth is that you’re gonna have to forget about Matt Adler and deal with the death of your child. I know you haven’t dealt with it.”
     I turn away, rattling my IV needle. A sharp pain shoots through my arm. My stomach hurts. “Please, just go. Close the curtains and tell the nurse I’m callin’ a meeting. He’ll know what you mean.”
     She sashays toward the curtains as if I have all the time in the world, as if I can control what’s happening inside. “I’m gonna call that pastor. He’ll remember you.” The curtains slam shut.
     “No!”
     “Peyton, please don’t turn your back on God. God’s workin’ on you. I know he is.”
     I double over in pain. “If you don’t get out of here I’m gonna explode, and you’re gonna regret it.” My guts rip open as the door clicks shut behind her. The embarrassing smile of Mr. Buttface turns beautiful as the pain gurgles through my tired, aching body. My position makes the task unbearable. I feel the heavy charcoal splash against my legs as a foul stench fills the small room.
     After my meeting, the zookeeper knocks before coming in to clean my cage. I hoist myself up as he pulls the bedpan out from under me. He methodically slides a dry towel between my bottom and the warm sheets. Then he hands me a Wet One for cleaning. His face bears no expression and he doesn’t speak. I stare at the wall, wondering where my father is.
     The suicide attempt is over. The event came and went like a traveling circus. My performance, those few polite smiles, convinced them that I’ll be fine.
     Continuing to stare at the wall, I beg God to make the smell go away. The stone-faced zookeeper places a third towel over the bedpan and carries it from the room. As I drift to sleep, I think about my time in the emergency room. I can still hear the cheerful, big headed nurse whispering, “What could she possibly have to be so upset about?”
   
Why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?

John 20:15

As I approach the exit, I wonder why I’m not supposed to leave the fifth floor. I glance around to see if anyone is looking and then slide through the heavy steel door. They moved me that morning and the nurse had removed my IV moments earlier. She said I could take a walk around the floor if I felt up to it. She doesn’t expect me to break the rules—to escape. But I can’t resist the idea of secretly roaming the hospital.
     Clutching the stair rail, I make my way down to the fourth floor. The hallway is identical except that more people fill it. They pass without noticing or caring that I’m only wearing a fluffy, pink bathrobe. Laughter, coming from the outpatient chemotherapy unit, bursts through the ordinary sounds around me. I stop and peep into the small sterile room. Three patients sit in Lazy Boy recliners. Their IV bags hang just above their heads like halos. Several nurses stand nearby, quietly laughing. They’re all laughing but it rings false. They don’t notice me standing in the doorway. One heavy man sits clutching a Newsweek; he doesn’t look sick. Two frail women sit facing each other. I see a look pass between them and their extremely pronounced cheekbones disturb me. They look so young—too young to die.
     No wonder everybody treats me like a baby. Why should they worry about me? It doesn’t seem fair. There’s no name for what’s growing in me and death is not as sure, but it’s there. I look closely at them again and am disgusted by my selfishness.
     Suddenly, a woman’s voice blares through the hospital speaker system. “Peyton Bound, please return to the fifth floor nurses’ station.”
     I dart into the nearest stairwell door and trudge downstairs to the third floor. There’s a tunnel-like walkway at the end of the hall. It leads to a new building adjacent to the hospital. Since the crowd seems to be moving in the opposite direction, I decide to walk through. I wrap my pink bathrobe tighter around me as I walk into the tunnel.
     A boundary between the two buildings, it stands architecturally alone. The gray concrete walls don’t belong with the old or with the new structure. It’s not pretty or even nice. It functions merely to usher me from one side to the other. I cough and the echo pushes me through. A security guard stands at the entrance of the new building. His eyes meet mine, but he continues talking to the small group of people gathered around him.
     Somebody laughs.
     “Peyton Bound, please return to the fifth floor nurses’ station.”
     I shuffle down the hall that leads away from the security guard. I soon realize that I’ve come full circle; the intensive care unit surrounds me. I cower behind a tall metal shelving unit that stands against the wall. I search for the zookeeper.
     Three tall, dark-haired men rush past me. The one closest to me bumps into the metal shelf, slamming it against me. I grab whatever I can to avoid falling. A middle-aged woman whose hair is dark like theirs emerges from my old cage and hurries to meet them. She is crying. She speaks softly and her words cripple them. I watch in horror as they fall to the floor like bowling pins. The camaraderie they share is gone. Each man grieves with his own voice; each feels his own pain. They wail in a foreign language. The smallest of the three, the one who bumped the shelf, rolls into a tight ball. Deep moans pour from his mouth like the demonic screams I imagined as a child. I slap my hands over my ears as if I can make both the real and imagined voices disappear. A doctor, two nurses, and the zookeeper rush from the cage.
     “Peyton Bound, please return to the nurses’ station.”
     The zookeeper’s eyes scan the ICU. He hesitates, scrutinizing the metal shelving. I wonder if he sees me but don’t wait to find out. I run.
     “Hey!” he yells. “You come back here!”
     I stop running as I approach the security guard and nonchalantly enter the tunnel. The musty smell of it fills my head; I feel nauseous. I lean against the wall and its coldness surprises me.
     “Hey! Peyton!” It’s the zookeeper.
     The security guard shouts, “What’s goin’ on?”
     “She’s from the fifth floor!”
     I propel myself through the other end of the tunnel. I take the stairs, two at a time, down to the second floor. My foot misses the last step and an unexpected floating sensation throws me off balance. I crumble to the floor, but the painful jolt leaves me more determined to run free. I pull myself up and try to get as far away from the stairwell as possible. People swarm around me. I push through the crowd as their uncaring eyes strip me naked. I cringe as they brush against me. Keeping my head down to avoid eye contact, I begin following painted blue footprints on the floor. There are other colors, but I choose the blue because they’re nearest to the wall. I never look up at the color-coded direction signs to see where they lead. I don’t care; the wall holds me steady.
     As I round the last corner everything brightens. The stark, white walls give way to a painted blue sky. Billowing clouds break the monotony every couple of feet. I instantly know where I am. Trying to catch my breath, I lean against the big window that takes up ten or twelve feet of sky. Six babies rest in plastic bassinets on the other side of the glass. They’re helpless, as insecure as they’d been in their mothers’ wombs. Each baby’s name is neatly printed on a pink or blue card attached to its bed. The cards read: Ginger Elizabeth, Thomas Scott, Megan Nicole, Sedric Warren, Lily Anne and James Thomas.
     As a child I’d made up hundreds of names. Walking through the house, I’d held the list and talked to the invisible children following me. I wonder if there are any behind me now.
     A tiny voice says, “You have the most lovely peaches and cream complexion.” I hadn’t noticed the elderly woman standing next to me. She’s barely five feet tall. Her wrinkled neck stretches, shoving her delicate face toward me. Her white hair and powdered skin make her green eyes shine.
     “Thank you,” I say. “Yours are beautiful, too.”
     “I’m 89 years old.”
     I’m surprised because she doesn’t look that old.
     “When I was your age I spent all my time wantin’ to be older. When I finally got there, I wanted to go back. I went to great lengths to hide my age, you know, not tell anybody,” she says, giggling like a little girl. “Now, I’m nothin’ but proud. I never imagined God would let me live this long.” Her face shines. “Does one of these little darlin’s belong to you?”
     I gaze at the six babies. One begins to cry.
     A hand comes down on my shoulder. “I thought I’d find you here.”
     It’s Peter with his merry smile. He always seems to find me. I imagine that his prematurely balding head has radar, searching me out even when I don’t want to be found. “How’d you know?” I ask as I watch the old lady shuffle down the hall, her tiny red shoes blending with the colored footsteps splashed across the floor. I wonder why she didn’t wait for my answer.
     “I just know you.”
     “But how did you know I was in the hospital?”
     “Actually, I called and your dad told me.”
     “I’m okay now, but … I’ve never been so sick. Food poisonin’,” I lie. “It was horrible.”
     His eyes flash just enough to tell me he knows I’m a liar. “Well, I guess you got it out of your system.” He smiles and squeezes my shoulder.
     “You’re my best friend.” I do love him in a way.
     “I know,” he says as he leads me away. We ride the elevator to the fifth floor without speaking. As the heavy doors part, we’re forced to stare at a large sign that reads, “Floor 5— Psychiatric Unit.”
     We both pretend not to see it.
     The zookeeper stands in the middle of the hall, his red fists poking into his chubby white scrubs like cherries hanging onto melting whipped cream. He smiles but it isn’t the same.

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BOUNDARIES is Penelope Przekop's first novel. It's a work of fiction based on true events. Since writing BOUNDARIES, she has completed two other novels. ABERRATIONS was published by Greenleaf Book Group in 2008. CENTERPIECES is currently being considered by several publishers. Penelope is working on her fourth novel, DUST.