Hey, everyone. Thanks once again for all the interest in the story. Chapter 42 makes use again of TheGodmother2's Incredible Dr. Chandler-he is still the property of her talented imagination and just on loan to me. : )
Chapter 42
Monday, 9:30 AM
I'm lying on a gurney in the pre-op holding area, wearing the requisite puffy hospital cap and open-down-the-back gown. Though I am currently the only patient in residence, two of the partition curtains are pulled all the way out, obscuring portions of the room.
Tabatha is sitting at my bedside flipping through her battered Rumi collection when I call the nurse over. He's young and wiry, and tattooed abundantly. Within his circle, I have no doubt he's the shit.
"Could you do me a favor?" I ask him. "Do you think you could pull the curtains back?"
He points across the room, obviously puzzled. "Those curtains?"
"Yeah," I say, all just-between-us. "I was involved in a shooting the other day, and the obstructed view makes me nervous."
Tabatha glances up briefly.
"Of course," he says, apologetic and embarrassed, already crossing the room. "I didn't realize. Yes, of course."
The room brightens, and instantly there's a miniscule but still perceptible loosening in my back and chest.
"Thanks for bringing me, Tabatha," I say. "Really."
She smiles and reaches over from her chair to squeeze my left hand.
I'm braced semi-defensively for her to remind me that this is what friends do for each other, when she throws me a curve and says, "I know you'd do it for me."
"You do?" I ask.
"Sure," she says.
"Should I call you when I wake up?"
She marks the page she's on with her finger and looks up at me.
"Vic," she says with a trace of uncharacteristic apprehension, "I don't know how you'll feel about this, but Walt offered to take you home."
For the first time in a long time, I have no automated physical response to the mention of Walt.
"Really?" I say.
"Want me to tell him to suck it?"
"I kind of do," I say. "Would you?"
"In those exact words," she says.
I smile, and I realize it's been a while since I've done that.
"No, it's fine I guess," I say. "I'll just call a cab if he throws me out and drives off."
We both get a good laugh out of that one before the nurse comes back to attach the plastic clamp to my index finger and record various vitals.
While he's doing that, Tabatha reads aloud from Rumi, just like she does at the end of each meditation session:
The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don't go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want. Don't go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the doorsill where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open. Don't go back to sleep.
It's still in my head after they wheel me into surgery, and while, according to instructions, I begin to count backwards from ten until darkness surrounds me.
Saturday, 1:00 PM
Chandler, in his high-end tan leather vest and starched chambray shirt, leaned forward, elbows on knees, meaty fingers forming a teepee.
"So you were prone nightmares before this," he said.
His voice was deeper than I remembered and his eyes bluer and more intense.
"These are on a whole different level. Horrific. I think I'd rather just be shot."
"In the dream you mean?"
"Yeah. I think that's what I mean."
"Rather than preached to, as you say."
"Yeah."
"But the ideas are coming from you. You said it yourself."
"I know," I said. "And that pisses me off. Why the hell would I do that to myself?"
"You tell me. Why would you do that to yourself?"
"I don't know. First I'm not good enough, I've never been good enough, and now it's some shit about right is right and wrong is wrong and it doesn't matter what I think."
"Is that what you believe? That right is right and wrong is wrong?"
"I'm not sure."
"Who gets to decide what right is?"
"God."
"God? He hasn't come up before."
"I haven't been here very long."
"So God plays a lead role in the day-to-day narrative of Victoria Moretti?"
"No. Maybe he should, but no."
I shifted in the chair, trying to find a more comfortable position.
"This is going to sound stupid," I said.
"Try me."
"Most of the time, I know what's right. Or I know what I'm supposed to think is right, but it doesn't feel right to me. I convince myself that I have to do the right thing, like stay and make it work with Sean, but I'm totally incapable of doing something that feels wrong, so I don't do a good job of it anyway. Ultimately I make the situation worse than if I'd just gone with the wrong thing that felt right in the first place."
"Your mind and your heart disagree as to right and wrong."
"Basically."
"You know, Vic, when you approach life, and especially relationships, with ideas as your primary gauge, you teach yourself to discount your feelings."
"I don't know what that means."
"When you believe that the right thing to do is to endure a marriage and the wrong thing to do is to acknowledge your feelings, you don't participate in creating a relationship that will meet the needs and respect the boundaries of both partners."
"I have every right to feel what I feel."
"Bingo."
"I just don't have a right to react to my feelings in a way that injures other people."
"Essentially."
"My aunt used to tell me that all the time."
"A wise woman."
"She was."
"When you went into work Thursday night, you figured it was the right thing to do?"
"I did."
"You know you would have been one hundred percent justified in saying no."
I nodded.
"These small town departments don't always follow protocol like they should, but whatever way you slice it, you are on medical leave and you do not have any obligation to answer the Sheriff's call until you're healed."
"I know that. I didn't do it because I thought it was the right thing to do for my job."
"Okay then," he said, his fleshy brow molding into a frown. "I guess I'm stumped."
"The Sheriff?"
"Uh-huh."
"He's the guy."
Monday, 1:45 PM
There is no transition. There is the darkness and there is the light, and there is nothing in between.
And despite the absence of any identifiable stimuli, I am laughing. In fact, I'm laughing so hard my abdominal muscles cramp, and I can't get a full breath.
Someone from the other side of the curtain yells, "Shut up! It's not funny!" and of course, to me, that's fucking hilarious.
Suddenly a ginger nurse, a woman, is standing next to me, and she's shushing me.
She adjusts the tubes in my nose and the clamp on my finger and says, with her hand on my bad shoulder, "Victoria?"
I laugh.
"Victoria?" she says again. "What's funny?"
I gasp, and groan, and catch my breath. The eye of the storm.
Then I start laughing again, and it takes me at least another minute to get it under control.
Finally I say, "Someone's," then I pant and giggle and try to keep a straight face, "tickling me."
I'm aware of how ridiculous it sounds, but it's my truth.
"No one's tickling you," she says.
"Then what's so funny?"
She's messing with the machine next to me and doesn't answer.
"I have a sore throat," I say.
"That's from the tube."
I think about that for a moment.
"Your friend's here to pick you up," she says. "Soon as you're feeling a little more yourself, we'll ask him to come in."
"Okay," I say. "I'll stop."
That's when I start crying.
I don't know how much time passes, but no one else yells at me. At some point I slip into a sort of fugue, and apparently that earns me behavior points because the nurse is back and saying, "We'll have your friend come in now if you're ready."
"Okay," I say. "Have I seen the doctor yet?"
"He'll be by in a while. Your friend can help you listen to what he says and ask questions."
"Okay."
Enough minutes go by that I don't even remember I'm waiting. When the nurse returns with Walt behind her, I'm surprised, and mildly confused.
He's got his hat in his hands, and he stands next to the bed, looking down at me with the faintest closed-lip smile.
I don't know what it is exactly, but he's never looked so good to me.
"Hey," he says. "How are you feeling?"
"Weird," I say.
"How's the shoulder?"
I look down at my arm in the sling. I'd forgotten about that.
"It looks pretty good," I say.
He drops his hat on the end of the bed then pulls the chair closer and sits.
"Vic," he says.
I turn my head on the pillow so I can look at him.
"You're so good looking," I say. "You're the best looking man I know."
"Vic," he says. He takes my hand in both of his. "You should rest. We can talk later."
"I'm supposed to be waking up," I say. "I'm going home soon."
He runs his thumb over my knuckles.
"You know what's weird, Walt?"
"What?"
"I can't even remember what it was like before."
"Me neither," he says. "But we should save this for later."
"Why? Are you afraid of what I might say?"
"No." His eyes are on mine, and he keeps them there. "I want you to say it, but I don't really deserve to hear it right now."
"You should be nicer to me."
"I know I should. If you give me another chance, I will be."
"What other chance? You're still on the same chance."
He kisses my hand, then puts his forehead down where his lips were.
"Are you asking me to forgive you?"
"I am," he says into my hand, then he picks his head up.
"I already forgave you. But that doesn't mean you can treat me like that."
"I know, Vic."
He caresses my cheek with the back of his fingers.
"I'll screw up again," he says.
"I know that, but some things are never okay."
"Boundaries."
"That's a word the shrink uses."
He doesn't respond at first, like maybe he's lost track of the conversation, and I start to lose track.
"I had it filed away," he says, but I'm not sure what he means.
He scoots closer and takes my hand, serious again.
"Vic," he whispers.
"I love you, Walt."
He seems to freeze, staring at me, chest rising and falling.
"I've been in love with you longer than I should have been. If there's a Hell, I might go there for it."
"You won't go to Hell for loving," he says.