Chapter 6
"The Morning After"
SOMETHING KEPT BUZZING AROUND MY HEAD. ANNOYING.
I SWATTED AT IT, TRYING TO MAKE IT GO AWAY. IT PERSISTED. ABRUPTLY I WAS SLAPPING ABOUT MY FACE, SCRATCHING AT MY NOSE, EYES AND EARS. BOTH HANDS TANGLED IN SOMETHING FILMY AND STICKY AND UNRECOGNIZABLE. A SPIDER WEB … SOME KIND OF ICKY SHIT. WHITE NYLON FILAMENT?
"AARRRGH …"
I AWOKE FULLY TO MORNING SUNLIGHT POURING THROUGH THE WINDOWS AND BATHING ME IN A PUDDLE OF BRILLIANCE. I WAS IN AN OVERSIZE SINGLE BED WITH MY BUM LEG PARTLY PROPPED ON A PILLOW AND MY NAKED FOOT STUCK UP IN THE AIR LIKE A PERISCOPE ON A SUBMARINE. I WAS STILL WEARING YESTERDAY'S UNDERWEAR. MY LEFT LEG WAS TANGLED IN THE SHEET, AND I HAD TO PEE! I MUST HAVE BEEN RESTLESS DURING THE NIGHT. I STOPPED AND TOOK FURTHER NOTE OF MY SURROUNDINGS. I COULD SEE BARE, DARK, WOODEN PLANKS OVERHEAD, OBSCURED BY SOME KIND OF MILKY FILM, AND I BLINKED IN AN EFFORT TO CLEAR MY VISION.
IT WAS NOT FILM. IT WAS MOSQUITO NETTING. THE BED HAD FOUR TALL POSTS, TO WHICH THE NET WAS ATTACHED AND HUNG DOWNWARD BEYOND THE EDGE OF THE MATTRESS. ABOVE, I COULD MAKE OUT A SMALL SQUADRON OF DEAD INSECTS WHICH SUCCUMBED, NO DOUBT, FROM THEIR INABILITY TO REACH THE LIVE MEAT THAT LAY SNORING BELOW. THE FRONT SCREENDOOR STOOD WIDE OPEN AND I LOOKED BEYOND IT, ACROSS A BROAD PORCH AND DOWN THE BEACH TO THE OCEAN, NOT THAT FAR AWAY. A LINE OF COCONUT PALMS, SPINY BUSHES AND A PALMETTO OR TWO, OBSCURED PART OF MY LINE OF SIGHT. RAW SUNLIGHT REFLECTED OFF THE BRIGHT WATER, ENOUGH TO BLIND SOMEONE IF THEY STARED TOO LONG.
THE BUGS WEREN'T WHAT WOKE ME. IT WAS MORE LIKE A LOW GRUMBLE; THE KIND THAT GETS UNDER YOUR SKIN AND DRIVES YOU NUTS UNTIL YOU SUDDENLY DON'T HEAR IT ANYMORE. KNOW WHAT I MEAN? AFTER YOU GET USED TO IT, IT KIND OF MELTS INTO THE BACKGROUND. THAT KIND OF GRUMBLE.
I finally figured out it was the generator. Hooley said it would quiet down after it ran awhile, and I guessed that this was the "awhile" he was talking about. I laid back again, tried to relax and ignore the thing.
I felt disoriented and dizzy and nauseous. I touched my own skin and it was warm and sticky, like paint that hadn't quite dried.
*Uh oh …*
Looking around, I discovered that this 'cigar-box-on-stilts' was bigger than it looked from outside in the dark. Actually, there was only one room and I was in it. The walls were dark wood planks, same as the ceiling; standing on end, butted together and calked. There were huge rafters above that held everything together. One side looked to be higher than the other, and I assumed it had a slanted roof covered in rolled roofing to keep out the rain … if it rained in this neck of the woods, and I assumed it did. A lot. The biggest window was the one in front next to the door. Anyway, they were all covered with heavy screening that looked not only bug-proof, but steam-locomotive and Mack-truck proof as well.
*In order for it to be bug-proof, dumbass, you have to remember to keep the screen door closed.*
Hooley obviously hadn't. I pushed onto my elbows, chancing that my vertigo could toss me out of the bed on my ass, and looked around further. Sure enough, the dizziness persisted and the room tilted again. I had a hangover and a temperature. Not good. My actions triggered a biological urge that told me I needed to take a leak soon, before I hosed down the whole room.
The rest of the place was a mish-mash of throwaways that must have got hijacked on the way to the dump. It might have been kind of quaint … or even mid-century modern … had it not been so obviously falling apart. The rattan chair with the stool that Hooley had helped me into last night, stood across from the bed about ten feet away, and a dilapidated platform rocker was in the corner near the front wall with a couple of decrepit recliners arranged around it. There were mismatched side tables and an old coffee table standing in the middle, of use to no one.
*Whoa …*
In the exact center of the room stood a huge bunk-house table with six odd chairs. To look at it, it would probably seat at least ten people. There was an odd ceiling fan with a light that hung over the middle of the table, and I frowned at it. Dumb idea to put a fan over a table where people were supposed to eat. Or maybe they served only cold food here. Maybe it was the only source of light and ventilation in the place. No air conditioning, obviously. At the moment I wished the fan were turned on. I was beginning to feel the heat radiating off me in waves.
The floor, I noticed, was covered wall-to-wall with ugly red and gray linoleum in a floral pattern; probably to keep bugs and critters from crawling up from underneath. They would have to use the steps; I decided … and laughed stupidly. The lino was molded to the floor boards and had probably been there since Harry Truman fired Douglas McArthur for not listening to orders. ("I didn't fire him for being an asshole, although he was …") That quote of Harry's had been my dad's favorite …
At least the place was clean. Sort of. I kept blinking to force things to stay in focus.
Lined up along the solid-looking back wall of the cabin was an eclectic array of '40s and '50s kitchen appliances. There was a white apartment-size gas stove, (what the hell did they use for fuel? Or did you just build a fire in it?), a big farm-house porcelain sink with some of the porcelain worn off down to the iron. Next to that was a Westinghouse refrigerator with rounded corners and a pull handle that looked like it came off a '49 Ford. Its noisy motor cycled on and off so often that it seemed to be talking to itself. A long wooden work counter stretched from the far side of the fridge, all the way to the opposite wall. It had been reworked enough times that it looked a little like a child's jigsaw puzzle … square pieces jammed together and nailed, with shelves added above and below. Sweet!
Beyond the foot of my bed was some sort of room with a heavy curtain pulled across the doorway. The head? Not much privacy there, but I sure needed to get to it somehow … and pretty damn soon. Or it could be a storage room or closet. Only thing was, there was the same size room in front, to the right of the door, with the same kind of curtain arrangement. But that one was probably the closet and the one back here, the head, 'cause this seemed to be where most of the plumbing was located.
I looked at my watch and was surprised to note that it was only 7:30 a.m. It seemed later than that, and I wondered where Hooley was. I didn't like what was happening to me. I was dizzy, and I really had to pee. But getting to and into that room presented a major problem. My cane was not nearby as far as I could see, and he'd insisted that I not put weight on my leg.
Hooley didn't know I was a doctor who was well aware what I must and must not do. He was right about not bearing weight. Even a very small amount could split open the wound he'd painstakingly taped together last night. The missing muscle would not allow me to hold my foot off the floor long enough to hop that far. I was screwed. I began to regret ditching the screechy old crutches back at the San Juan airport.
My tendency toward shortsightedness in this strange environment was already full of hairy scenarios, and I had an odd feeling that I would learn some difficult lessons here … if I lasted that long. "Crippled guy's adventures on a desert island" kind of drama was just about as contra-indicative as one could get.
My mind kept flipping back and forth from immediate needs to casual observations, and I next became aware that I was also thirsty. My stomach felt queasy and I doubted there was anything to drink here anyway. I didn't quite trust the water, except to shower with. I took a deep breath and pulled myself to a sitting position on the bed. The room tilted, but I caught myself with a grip on the bed frame. I eased my leg off the pillow and pulled away the netting to see if there was anything I could use to prop up on so I could get to the john.
Nothing.
I turned further, kicked away the sheet with my left leg and eased the right one carefully off the bed, to touch my heel to the floor. My senses swam and my leg was waking up incredibly fast and starting to hurt like a bitch.
*Fuck!*
Then I heard the dune buggy.
"Vroom … roar … vroom … putt-putt-putt …"
Sounded like a barrel full of walnuts, but it was the most welcome sound on the island.
Hooley was back!
I wilted. No other word for it. A feeling of reprieve swept over me as though I was about to be hauled bodily out of a pit of quicksand just before I got sucked under. I lost muscle tone and slumped forward drunkenly, so great was the rush of relief. And that was not like me at all.
When Hooley came clomping up the steps, I turned to him in eager welcome. Not so much the eager welcome for a good friend; more like the need for a warm body to help me move my warm body to the nearest potty!
When he saw me, he dropped two canvas bags filled with god-knew-what, and a large backpak onto the floor with a bang. He charged across to the bed and clasped my shoulders with both hands. "Kyle Calloway! What is wrong? You are feverish … you look terrible."
The half-smile I offered in return was pathetic, and I knew it.
"I gotta Peee …"
He was at my right shoulder in an instant, lifting and heaving quickly in his relief that I was not having a stroke or a heart attack or some other disgusting crisis. He got me into the john, and I shooed him away so I could tend to business in private. I could still hear him stomping around as he hurried out of there and closed the curtain behind him.
I yanked down my underwear and lowered myself dead-center onto the throne in the nick of time. In scary flashbacks, it reminded me of the time I'd had to catheterize myself.
*Ugh!*
That wasn't the case this time. Euphoria came with the release of my angry bladder. Its accompanying fire-hose performance made me weak with ecstasy as I sat in a fog of fevered liberation. Listening to the discharge of my little high-pressure hose as my stream echoed against the fiberglass took the remainder of my pent-up desperation right along with it. God, I was woozy!
"Ahhhhh …"
From the other room I could hear Hooley pacing and the floor boards groaning beneath his weight.
I finally called to him: "Will you come get me out of here? Please?"
There are certain situations where a show of good manners is unconditionally applicable. I didn't know this guy that well yet, but he was my only means of reprieve in a pinch. Like now. I should try to be nice.
When he opened the curtain, I had just flushed … did I say it was a chemical toilet? It sounded like forty pigs snorkeling at their trough. I had pulled up my underwear and was leaning heavily against the wall. When I looked up, he was standing in the doorway holding one upper-arm crutch in each hand. They were, of course, aluminum, but they also looked fairly new, maybe not as squeaky as the ancient under-arm ones I'd so stupidly tossed away.
Hooley walked over to me and thrust a crutch into each of my eager hands. "Thank you." Gratefully, I took them and equalized my weight, wobbling a bit as I searched for balance. No squeaks, just a few adjustment sounds as the metal attuned to my clumsy center of balance. If someone asked me at that moment to list the ten most memorable events of my life, the last five or ten minutes might be pretty close to the top.
I staggered out of the john, crossed drunkenly to the bed and flopped down, panting.
Hooley stood looking at me with hands on hips. "Where do you wish to start, Kyle Calloway?"
"Huh?"
"There is much to do today, Mon. You need to be off your leg until the wound knits, not looking for ways to get into trouble. I understand the situation today because you had no means to get yourself to the bathroom. Now you have. You must never be without them. Also, you are fevered and we must determine why."
I stared at him, not happy with his assessment of my failings. I bit my tongue and did not tell him I thought he was being pissy. I knew why I had the fever. Too much walking, not enough resting; too much booze and not enough food, and I had lost a good amount of blood. I hung my head and said nothing.
He pointed to my bandage. "That should be changed, do you not agree? Each day must bring improvement until you can return to the use of your cane, no?"
I nodded, still keeping a lid on my argumentative tongue. For now he was boss, and if truth be told, I was grateful to be catered to for a change. "Your call," I said. "Where do you want me?"
"Right where you are would be good. Your leg must be straight when I assess the wound, and this morning we have plenty of light."
I could not fault him for his concern or his honesty. So far he was running against the current for the way I'd always measured people. He didn't argue, just stated facts.
Hooley removed the tape and the pads while I winced and hissed. Then he took his first really good look at what he was dealing with. A low whistle that escaped from him precluded the need for words. It was easier to take, however than many reactions I had received, even from doctors who should have known better. "You are septic," he said quietly. "Did you not notice the odor?"
I shook my head. I'd been so preoccupied with the need to urinate that I wouldn't have noticed a load of pig manure being dumped on my bed.
"You hide from me that you are not feeling well, and say you are fine. You are not fine. Now you must have another shot of penicillin, and as you Americans say, 'suck it up' while I tend the wound, remove the torn stitches and replace them with new ones. There is inflammation, and it must be treated with anti-biotics. It will hurt …"
"Yeah, I know. I've been living in a world of hurt a long time. A little more can't make that much difference."
I watched him dig around in one of his big canvas bags and marveled at the prodigious amount of medical paraphernalia he rooted out and crammed between his left arm and his chest. He piled it all on the bed and got up to go to the kitchen sink. He found a small kettle beneath the counter, filled it half full of water and set it the stove. I was about to find out how the damn stove worked, and I leaned forward, all eyes. The oven door, when he pulled it open, was a clever way to conceal the small propane tank that squatted inside. I snorted with laughter and wrinkled my nose as he lit it with a barn burner.
"That's a cheat."
He turned and stared at me with a sharp movement that made his little bell jingle. "Why is it a cheat? The oven does not work, but the metal sides isolate the fumes and make it safe to use the surface burners which, as you can see … do. It was Amos' idea. He and I designed the gas feed and built it. Now we have a cooking surface, and if you want baked things, there is a slow cooker on one of the shelves … or in the closet. Somewhere." He sounded rather smug, and I felt a sudden kinship.
"Three points for your side," I said. "Sorry; my bad. It's a swell idea."
He pulled a small stack of old glass cereal bowls from the other canvas sack, along with a box of table salt. I knew what he was doing, but I kept quiet and watched as he prepared to treat my septic wound. He poured hot water into the bowl and added a generous amount of salt. He stirred and stirred until the salt was dissolved and the water had cooled a bit. He pulled on a pair of throw-away sterile gloves and bent closer to work at cleansing my leg and mopping around the edges of the scar. It burned like hell, but I'd known it would and I steeled myself as he treated the infection.
The penicillin needle looked twice as long this time, and my ass cheeks bunched up when he sterilized the thing and drove it home.
*PHummph …*
I have no idea what he used to stick me in the arm this time, but soon I was mellowed out and sappy and ready to swing into my own version of 'Swanee River' …
When I regained my senses, Hooley was cooking something that smelled pretty good on the little cheater stove. I was flat on my back with the sheet over me, and I had a feeling of: 'shit-showered-and-shaved' within an inch of my life. I was wearing a clean tee shirt, and when I threw down the sheet, which covered only my right leg, I was also wearing scrubs with the right leg cut off. The screen door was closed, my wound was open to the air and my leg lay cushioned on the same pillow as last night. I gasped and examined myself further. My beard was trimmed almost to Gregory House's familiar scruff, and I was realizing I had been manhandled by another male.
The wound on my leg looked amazingly clean and clear of the yellow tint of infection that had been there when Hooley took the bandages off. The torn stitches were gone, replaced by tiny new ones. I must have been out for some time. The arm canes were propped by the bed within easy reach, and I of course reached for them.
Hooley turned from the stove and held up a warning hand. "Whoa, Mon, you are not ready. You must not move your leg until I apply fresh bandages. Even then it is imperative that you use extreme caution. If you tear these stitches, I will have no choice but to call for an ambulance to take you to the hospital, for it will be far beyond my capabilities to repair them again. You are extremely weak, and it is doubtful you would have the strength to use the canes anyway. I am preparing a light meal, and there is coffee in the pot. I will help you to sit up when everything is ready." He returned to his boiling and stirring without waiting for my reaction.
Suddenly he was saying something else. It was spoken so softly that I had to strain to hear.
"I take back anything I might have said before about your injury. I apologize sincerely, for I have examined your problem at length. Although I am still puzzled, I now understand that you have suffered serious trauma. You are not only injured, but disabled. I now comprehend that your pain is chronic. You are fortunate that you could walk at all. Your right foot is starting to turn inward, and something should be done. Contracture of your knee is also beginning, and you must work against it. Give yourself three weeks for further healing of the stitches. After that, you should be able to work gradually up to being able to walk again with your cane."
I was staring at him in amazement while he spoke, gratified that he'd looked beyond the obvious. He'd seen that my quadriceps muscle was missing and the resulting damage had made me a cripple. He also recognized that I had not caused the injury to myself. I wished Wilson and Cuddy could meet this guy.
"Thanks," I said. "Been awhile since anybody agreed with me that the pain wasn't all in my head."
"What have you been taking for it?"
"Vicodin."
"That is very strong. And addictive. It will eventually ruin your kidneys. And your liver. How long?"
"Too long. You're preaching to the choir. I had an infarction in my thigh. I opted for a medically induced coma … sleep through the worst of the pain. My doctor was agreeable with that, but my medical proxy changed the rules while I was under the anesthetic. She authorized major surgery … afraid I was dying … and it compromised the utility of the leg. Now I drag it around like the dead thing it is. Useless. Always painful. I should have let them take it when I had the chance … but I just couldn't. There will probably come the day when I won't have a choice."
"I agree, unfortunately," Hooley said.
There was a long period of silence before he said anything further.
I waited.
"You are a doctor," he said finally. "Your name is not 'Kyle Calloway'. I spent all of last night in the researching of you, for you are well known in the United States. You are Gregory House, and years ago I read your books on Nephrology and Infectious Diseases."
Again there was a long period of silence.
Again I waited. Staring at his back as he stirred the cook pot.
He turned slowly and looked me in the eyes. It was disturbing. "Did you wish that I not reveal any of the things I found out?"
How had I thought I could keep it a secret? I nodded shortly. "Yeah. Please".
Hooley nodded briefly and removed the pot from the stove.
"It is done," he said finally.
Did he mean the soup in the pot?
Or that he would keep my secret?
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