Before I know it I’m riding the escalator. It’s all gold, reflections of storefronts on each level with glittery necklaces displayed on the engineered chests of headless mannequins in cocktail dresses. No one can pass me and my ratty backpack and Dad’s little rolling suitcase as I ride up past this incredible wall of water and vines and flowers. It’s like the pictures of Hawaii in the Sunday travel section of the newspaper.
Dad may come here when he’s meeting his New York publishers to deliver edited manuscripts. Meredith would love the way it makes you completely forget you’re in the city. If I could figure out a way to sound convincing, I’d apply for a job as a janitor here. Somewhere close by I could rent a basement apartment and Meredith and Mack could come and visit.
Just as my legs are about to give out, I get to the third floor. Pulling myself out of the escalator line, I sit down at an empty table at the edge of a cafe that overlooks the wall of water and the lobby. I’m perspiring, about to run to find the men’s room because I’m afraid I’m going to lose the little I’ve eaten since I’ve left Virginia, when the nosebleed happens. Trump’s penguin waiters are not pleased to see me, a regular fountain of blood pumping all over the starched white tablecloth. They crowd around me, jabbering in at least four different languages. With ice in a plastic bag pressed to my face, they escort me to a service elevator and I’m shoved out into the back alley, surrounded by Dumpsters and three men in rags suckling paper bags in the corners. Holden, where are you?
While I hug the fire escape railing and try to lean my head back to stop the bleeding, two of the bums tug themselves to standing and edge toward me. Mud stains or worse dribble down their clothes. Threads hang from their shirt cuffs in clumps of brown.
“You lost, boy?” The bigger man slurs the words as he steps in for a closer look.
The third man groans from where he sits on the ground. “Don’t touch him, he’s prob’bly contagious.”
“You can share your wallet, or we can share it for you,” the first man screams. The words, mingled spittle and germs, shoot into my eardrum. I’m relieved Mom’s not here. She’d be cringing.
He stops his head inches from mine, but close enough that I can see the veins etched against his eyes like the laces on a baseball. Blood drools down the side of the bag of ice. My blood. It drips onto the old guy’s sneaker. When he doesn’t notice, I think it’s a good thing he’s drunk. How badly can he hurt me if he’s drunk?
When I come to, I’m in a narrow white stall, curtains flapping on both sides, open to a waiting room full of chairs. It’s crammed with people who look like they’re related to the raggedy men in the alley. I’m lying on a gurney next to a white-uniformed nurse with bright orange hair and a line of studs in one ear that glint in the fluorescent glare. After she checks my pulse, blood pressure, all that standard stuff, and makes quick notations on a clipboard, she pricks my finger without warning.
“Ouch.”
“You should have thought of that before you fainted, kid.”
Without speaking she and I watch the slender tube fill with blood.
“Ever been anemic?” she asks as she pulls up my sleeve and stares at the inside of my elbow where it bends.
“I don’t think so.”
“Clean,” she says to no one in particular.
She’s looking right through me and I’m waiting for her to see the spots on my lungs with her bare eyes.
“Are you eighteen?” she asks.
“I’m not stupid. I know you couldn’t treat me if I was underage.”
“If you’re already thinking you need treatment, you’d better tell me what this is all about. Your sign-in sheet lists Edmont Hotel as your address. Far as I know, they tore that down a few years back.” Head tilted to share the joke, she drags a metal stool from the adjoining cubicle, tugs the curtain closed around us, and sits down like she’s talking trash with her girlfriends. “So…what’s going on, kid? No ID. Blood all over the place. Gonorrhea? Crack? You look half dead.”
“Wow, that’s impressive. You got that right on the first guess.”
Her feet crash to the floor and she leans in, her eyes fixed on mine. “Okay, funny guy, that ain’t funny. Where the hell are your parents? If you’re dying, they ought to be here.” Her hand is poised to tear back the curtain.
“Please, wait, let me explain.”
“I’m all ears. And I’ve heard it all before. You can’t shock me.”
“Leukemia. Almost a year.”
“Let me guess. Chemo and radiation slowed things down and now you’re feeling lousy again. You skipped out on round two.”
“No chemotherapy, no radiation. My mother took me to Mexico.” I can’t believe the words are spilling out, racing to be spoken in this cubicle to a woman—a girl, really—who doesn’t know me and probably doesn’t care one way or the other.
“Jesus H. Christ. What were they thinking?”
“It sounded really logical at the time. I agreed with them.”
“Yeah, well, you’re a teenager. I expect that kind of stupidity from a teenager, but adults are supposed to know better.”
When she turns to work the dials on a machine off to the side, I slide my legs off the gurney. The suitcase ought to be here somewhere. My jacket. My backpack. The papers from Senator Yowell, the new law that gives me the right to make treatment decisions on my own.
Next thing I know I wake up covered with blankets, still in the same little cubicle. The same nurse has the phone to her fuzz of orange hair. That same stare focuses on punching numbers, while her pen taps against the counter until someone answers on the other end and her head starts to nod like a groupie’s at a rock concert. The conversation is long and longer, but not loud enough for me to make out the words. I doze off and lose most of it, except “emergency” and “ASAP.” When she turns around, I try to smile. I need her and she knows it.
“You lied,” she says.
“It doesn’t matter. My parents don’t understand. No one understands. Anyway, it’s my life.”
“That’s what they all say. Well, now that you’re here, you’re going to get a chance to do a better job of explaining it. Don’t move.”
She brings me a tray from the cafeteria. Hamburger, fries, and orange juice.
“Daniel Solstice Landon, that your real name?”
“Yeah. Swedish.”
“I’m Jolie, but I’m not French.”
“Look, I’m sorry to be so much trouble. The nosebleeds are … I can never tell about the nosebleeds. Will they let me talk to a doctor?”
“Maybe. If you eat. You need strength. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“From the nosebleed?”
“I’d say someone took a heavy object to the back of your head.”
My fingers explore and discover that my head has been shaved. Tape and a bandage cover a padded square between my ears. So the men in the alley were sober enough after all. No wonder my head throbs.
“I’m not very hungry.”
“You’ll have to do better than that. Drink the orange juice at least. Blood sugar levels, you know. They have to take another tube of blood—a big tube this time—and you already fainted once with me. Who knows how many times before you got here.”
“How did I get here?”
“Listen, we aren’t writing biographies. This is the emergency room. No one comes here with a history all written out in plain English.” She holds the paper cup to my lips and shakes her head. “If you were my kid, I’d kill you for running away without telling me. I assume your parents had no idea you were headed here.”