I kick the door lock with my heel a few times. The catch spring breaks and the door swings open.
“I’m leaving,” I say.
“Good riddance.”
“You don’t mean ‘goodbye’?”
“I mean good riddance and goodbye and all the other vale-dictums, leave-partings and fare-thee-wells.”
“You don’t mean valedictions and farewells?”
“I meant and mean them all. Goodbye, good riddance, goodnight forever, ex-partner, and if I never see you again may that be time enough.”
“You don’t mean ‘If I never see you again may that be soon enough’?”
“I mean something like that and much more.”
“Well, you know — and I think I can say that ‘you know’ even if I don’t think I’ve ever said this to you before — I’m kind of glad to be rid of you too.”
“You haven’t quite rid yourself of me yet.”
“Once I leave this house, I mean.”
“The feeling’s mutual.”
“That’s what I meant.”
She turns her back to me.
“You’ve nothing more to say?” I say.
She shuts the door.
“Your door can’t lock,” I say. “I said your door can’t lock. Your door doesn’t lock. You’ll have to get the door fixed if you want it to lock. I mean, the door lock fixed if you want the lock to lock. Or just another rim lock put on, which means your door fixed if you want your door to lock. Or if I kicked your door too hard when I broke the lock and by doing so also broke your door, then both your door and lock fixed if you want your door with this lock to lock.”
She throws open the door and comes at me with a candlestick. Not “comes at me,” but races toward me with the candlestick. Not “races toward me,” but it’s too late as the candlestick comes down on my head. Not “comes down,” but came down and maybe the candlestick came down on my head many times or came many times down on my head or just came down many times on my head, for when I did come to or out of it or out of unconsciousness as it can also be said, I was on a bed in a hospital room, a bandage around my head. And I was trying to remember, so I could make sure I still had the power or ability or facility or faculty or capacity or capability or whatever it is of memory, what it was or why or how I got to this hospital in the first place. What it was about me that was instrumental or whatever the word is that helped bring me here, just so I won’t do it again.
THE DOCTOR
The nurse. She bathes and dries me. Shaves me and dresses me in my very best. My suit. My white shirt and even has my shoes shined. But she doesn’t know how to make a tie right. That’s okay. “Just tie it a little tighter at the knot,” I say. She does. “Not so tight,” I say, “or they’ll get you for choking me to death and not for letting me expire in a more proper medical way.” She laughs. They like me here. Doctor Sweet Guy I’ve been nicknamed. That’s okay. Undignified expression maybe, but something I’ve gotten to like. I’d maybe like anything today because it’s my third day out of intensive care and a Sunday. And on Sundays everybody has visitors and no matter how many times I’ve said nobody has to visit me if they got anything else they want to do that day, I’m glad I’m in a room where I can have all I want. My son. My daughter, who’s bringing my wife. My sister who lives two blocks away even, though with her who knows? “Two blocks can be the last mile for me,” she said over the phone yesterday. My former longtime patients who some of them I’d really be happy to see.
They sit me up in a chair. No bed today. “Thank you very much,” I say. “You look very nice,” the nurse says. “Thank you very much again and you do too.” “You’ve never seen me in my best clothes,” she says, “but maybe one day.” “Oh yeah,” I say, “maybe one day you and me we’ll go dancing at a doctors’ convention, okay?” “Okay,” she says. She combs my hair. “You got the part wrong I’m afraid.” “Sorry,” she says and she combs the part on the other side. I’m not supposed to do any of these things by myself just yet. Eating, yes, and answering the phone, but the doctors say nothing else and I’ll agree with that. Today it’s just cosmetic. I might just look good and as if I did everything myself, but inside I’m still not so hot. She even combs down my mustache. My professional mustache I grew to look older because in those days nobody wanted to go to young doctors, and which fifty years I’ve never shaved off once. She holds up the mirror to me and says “Nice.” I look. I look okay. Like somebody my age who’s been in a hospital for two weeks after a fairly serious heart attack, but okay. “Thank you,” I say. “Have a nice day,” she says, “and if you need anything, just ring.” “Thank you very much. You’ve been very competent and kind.” She leaves. I wait.
No one comes. Hours pass. The lady with my lunch and who later takes the tray away, but nobody else. I had to get a private room? They made me get one. “Dad,” Alba said, “between you and your medical insurance you can well afford it, and you deserve the best.” But I like the idea of talking to other patients and listening to their visitors’ conversations and jokes. Laughing and people with feet walking around. People with behinds sitting up and down. “Oh, they’ll just bother you,” Alba said, “asking you a lot of free doctor and health questions till you never get any rest,” even though I wouldn’t mind and with all the doctors coming in to see their patients, it would in fact help me to keep in touch. Finally: “It doesn’t look right,” Alba said, “a doctor should have his own room.” But she has too big a mouth. Ordering me. Ordering her mother, who’s staying with her till I get out of here and isn’t well herself. First Merry got a stroke and when I’m taking care of her at home a year after she comes out of the hospital, I get one too. But hers was much worse and left one side of her partially paralyzed and her mind a little slow and forgetful when it was always so quick and retentive before, so she’ll never recover as much as I hope to. And my sister, though with all her illnesses, she has a good excuse. And my longtime patients, though most of them have no cars and live too far away. And of course my son. What’s he doing that’s so important where he can’t visit me today and for the last week or at least call to explain why? But don’t get so excited. The doctors here won’t even let me read my medical journals for fear I’ll get too excited reading them. And there’s still plenty of time for visitors to come. Just sit here and sit tight. That same nurse from before stops in the corridor and says “How’s it going, doctor?”
“Fine, thank you. I’m feeling just fine.”
“Good.”
An hour later my phone rings.
“Dad,” Alba says, “we won’t be able to come see you today. I’m sorry.”
“That’s too bad. Anything wrong?”
“We were all set to leave with Mom when our neighbor gave Louis four of the best Garden seats for the Harlem Globetrotters game. We didn’t want to go, but the boys put up such a holler that we had to give in.”
“If you’ll be in New York, why don’t you drop your mother off here and go to your game and later come back across the bridge again to pick her up?”
“It’d be too much for everyone. All that traveling and traffic on Sunday and bridges four times, and the boys would be exhausted.”
“Then leave Louis and the boys at the Garden and you drive here with your mother and later pick them up.”
“But I’ve never seen the Globetrotters. For thirty years I’ve wanted to see them do their antics and tricky things with the ball and all and I know this will be my only chance.”
“Actually, I don’t know why I’m making a fuss. I’ve already told all of you that if you have better things to do, do them instead of coming here. Though I did want to see your mother.”