The walk home is beautiful. The air is crisp and clear, for once. There is actual white snow on the ground, and I have an insane desire to make snow angels. I stop myself, of course, but the good feelings don't fade. I feel like all is right in my world.
I'm hesitant to go up to the loft, sure that Mimi has done something vile there. Surprisingly enough, when we open the door, she has left our things alone and taken only her own. I nearly cry I'm so relieved.
The machine is blinking, so Mark goes to check the messages. The first one is JoAnne, all worked up over Maureen. Mark and I grin at each other across the front room. The second message is the Cat Scratch Club, calling to ask if anyone has seen Mimi. That's odd. She always shows up to work, if for no other reason than she needs a fix on a regular basis and can't get one without the job.
Another message. "Mr. Davis, please call Lutenant Marshall Cribbon at the 73rd precinct as soon as you get this message. It's regarding your wife." Another. "Mr. Davis, this is Saint Vincent's Hospital on West 11th. Please call us as soon as you get this message."
I look at Mark. He is wide-eyed. The phone rings, and he answers it, subdued and scared. He holds the phone toward me. "It's the hospital, Rog," he says and I force myself to walk to the phone. "Mr. Davis," a woman's voice says curtly over the phone, "we've been trying to contact you since 2 AM. Your wife was brought here with blunt force trauma to the head. Her prognosis is very poor. I suggest you get yourself here as soon as possible."
I don't know why she is saying all of this over the phone... aren't there laws? She takes my silence for consent, and says, "We will see you soon," before hanging up. The dial tone buzzes in my ear and Mark comes to take the phone from me. "What's going on," he asks. I explain the conversation. I feel numb. I feel nothing. Not even pity for the woman I loved such a short time ago.
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The hospital is cold. Why is every place in New York so fucking cold all the time? Nothing in this entire fucking city is warm. If I could warm up, maybe I would stop feeling so damn numb.
The room is even colder than the hallways. Mimi's head is wrapped in bandages, her face blotchy and pale. She looks like a little girl. The doctor walks in behind me, catching me offguard. "Her body is shutting down," he says and I stare at him. "Sorry. What I mean is, she apparently hasn't been taking her AZT for a while. She was so high when she came in that she didn't even realize she was hurt. Her heart rate was over 200, and frankly, I'm surprised she hadn't had a heart attack. Do you have any idea how she may have gotten hurt?" I shake my head. "We are... divorcing. I saw her yesterday when she came to get her things, but my... friend took me out and I didn't even see her leave the apartment. She was still packing when I left..."
I fade off, thinking about her friend that came with her. "There was a guy. A big black guy. He's a bouncer at the club she works at. I think they call him Jarod, but I'm not sure. He came with her when she got her stuff. Maybe he knows something." The doctor nods and soon after he leaves the room.
Mark comes to the door and peers in. I motion him in and explain what's happening. I can't believe that five hours ago he and I were curled up together in the hotel. That two hours ago we were walking down the street and I was about to fling myself down on the ground to make snow angels. That an hour and a half ago we didn't even know Mimi was sick. I feel a bit ashamed that I would rather be at the loft curled up with Mark than here beside my wife in name only as her body shuts down.
It is fairly obvious it is shutting down. I would have known even without the doctor's blunt announcement. Her candle is going out. God, what a stupid fucking cliched thought. What a stupid fucking cliched life. Mimi the slut, Mimi the druggie... and she's dying of it all, here in a hospital in Chelsea. If I could, I would get her one last hit to go on. She'd want to go out that way.
But, of course, I sit still and just watch it all happen. It takes three days. Three long and pain filled days. No, I'm still numb, but Mimi's in pain. She moans a lot and the nurses give her a morphine drip. That stops the moaning, finally. I send Mark home on the second day. Collins brings me hot miso soup and cold beers that I hide from the nurses. Benny sends flowers... I wonder why people send flowers to dying people? It seems useless to me. It isn't like Mimi is appreciating the fucking things.
The third day, I wake up to machines buzzing and screaming. It is 10 AM and I watch them come in and shut machines down. I'm her "next of kin" and even I didn't really get any say in the whole thing. She had a DNR (Do Not Recesutate) card in her wallet. Her decision. Her life. Her choices, like always.
I call the family. Not her family... JoAnne's already volunteered that task. Mimi's mother is kind of insane. It's best if Jo calls her. Mimi's got a little sister who will be crushed. As I always say, I suck around people who are upset.
Collins and Mark come to pick me up. I'm tired, I stink of hospital and sweat and beer, I want a shower, a kiss from Mark and bed... not necessarily in that order. There's too much to do. Unluckily, Collins has been through this shit before. I miss Angel right now, because she would have known how to organize all this into some kind of fabulous party celebrating Mimi's life and the times she DIDN'T fuck up... right now all I can think of are all the bad times.
The loft has never felt so warm. I can't even think of a shower now. Collins gets on the phone to set up the funeral and I fall into bed. Marky kisses me gently on the forehead and tucks me in. I reach up to him, and he kisses me on the lips. "Sleep," he whispers, and good boy that I am, I listen.