When Loretta first moved into 315 East Harcourt Street, her rent was $50 a month. And despite three changes in ownership of the building, $50 it remained. She paid the rent and bought her food by collecting bottles and cans, many of them saved for her by regular customers. In fact, she had been doing so well of late that she had plastic bags with three weeks'worth of cans stacked against the back wall of her apartment.
She had a telephone, a radio, and a small black and-white TV. She had a table with four chairs, and the bed that the workers at her last group home had given her. She had a braided rug and a bulky chair that rifted up when she leaned back. She had stacks of magazines that she picked up while making her bottle rounds. And although she couldn't read them, she liked looking at the photos. She liked Oprah and The Price Is Right, and on warm days, she liked walking up and down the streets of the North End, waving to the children and the people in the shops.
And every day she loved to call the weather machine and listen to the forecast.
But now, Loretta Leone could do none of those things. She lay face up on her rug, unable to move, totally exhausted from trying to breathe.
For a time she could see-trace the cracks in the ceiling with her eyes.
But now everything was black. Her arms, especially the one with the new cast, had gone from heavy to numb. And now she couldn't lift them at all.
She could feel and hear the fluid gurgling up in her mouth, choking her.
For a while she could cough the fluid away, but now she no longer tried.
The phone began ringing, again and again. She tried to move to — answer it, but nothing happened.
Then, through the darkness, Loretta heard a pounding on her door.
She heard men calling out her name.
"I'm here," she wanted to cry out. "I'm here and I'm frightened.
Please help me. I can't breathe."
The pounding grew-louder. Suddenly there was a loud crash.
Loretta knew that her door was being broken down.
Hurry, Loretta thought. Hurry and help me.
"Okay, okay. Reach in and open it," she heard a man say.
"There she is. Jesus, look at this place. No wonder the North End's so clean. All the junk's in here."
There were footsteps. Then Loretta sensed a hand touching her on the side of her neck.
"Nothing," one man said. The hand probed again, and then pulled away.
"She's gone. See that fluid?
Looks like a heart attack." it took several seconds before Loretta understood.
No, wait, her mind screamed. I'm alive! I can hear you! I can hear you!
"Do you want to mouth-to-mouth her?"
"Hell, no. Do you want to put your mouth over that? Just call the rescue squad. Let them do it if they want. Then call the station and report what's going on." One man made a phone call while the other continued feeling along Loretta's neck. Then he put his ear to her chest.
"You know, every once in a while, I swear I can feel a pulse," he said.
"That's just the pulsing in your own fingers. It happens like that all the time. Jesus, this place.
"Billy, check her neck. tell me what you think."
Loretta sensed the other man kneeling beside her and felt his hand on her neck. His fingers were colder than the first one's.
"Nada," he said.
The two men continued to alternate touching her neck, all the while talking about her place. Loretta heard them and felt them through a paralyzing darkness.
Soon there were more voices, other hands.
Have you done any CPR?" a woman's voice asked.
"A little. Well, not much."
"Dammit, Billy, you know the protocol. Full resuscitation on everyone except in cases of obvious traumatic death."
"You mean like a beheading?"
"That's exactly what I mean. The only one who can pronounce a patient is a doctor. Come on, Ray, jimmy, let's get moving."
Suddenly Loretta sensed a great deal of commotion around her.
Heavy hands began to press on her chest, again and again. Her head was tilted back and something was shoved into her mouth, then deeper and deeper into her throat.
"Tube's in," a man said. "Give me some oh-two."
"Okay, now an IV"
"This cast looks new."
"Get the monitor on her. Here, Billy. You know CPR. TAe over this pumping. Sixty a minute. That's it. Steve, ventilate her. Once every few seconds."
"Monitor's on."
"What have you-got?"
"Something. Wait a second. Yes, she's in a very slow, regular rhythm.
Eight, ten a minute. Complexes very wide."
"Billy, you should have been doing CPR on this woman."
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. She looked dead."
"She probably is, but that's not your decision to make."
"Check her pupils, win you?"
Loretta felt hands on her eyes. For an instant she experienced a painful flash of bright white light.
"Dilated and fixed."
"I told you she was dead."
"Just keep pumping. Ray, get White Memorial on the radio. Tell them we've got a Monty One."
"Any pressure?"
"None."
"No pressure, no pulse, dilated pupils. Jesus, what in the hell was I supposed to think."
"You weren't. You were just supposed to start CPR and call us."
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"Get some epi in that line."
"White Memorial, this is Boston Rescue, paramedic Driscoll speaking. We have Priority One traffic.
Repeat, this is Priority One…
Voices began to blend with one another in Loretta's mind. And although she understood almost nothing of what they were saying, just the sound of them made her feel better. The hands pumping on her chest hurt her, but they, too, were reassuring.
"Do you want to shock her?"
"What's her rhythm?"
"The same. Eight a minute. Very wide complexes.
"Just end-of-the-line beating. She needs drugs, not current."
"What she needs is a goddam priest."
"Cool it, Billy, will you?"
"The people at White Memorial say just proceed according to protocol and transfer as soon as possible."
"move the stretcher over here. Over here!"
"Stand back there, ma'am. Someone will be with you to explain everything in just a bit. It looks like heart failure… I don't know if she's going to be all right. Right now it doesn't look good."
"Okay, get set to transfer. You two keep pumping and bagging her.
Ready, Ray? Jimmy? Okay. One, two, three, lift!"
Loretta felt herself being lifted and then set down.
For a moment the comforting hands stopped pumping on her. Then they started again.
"All right. Move back, everyone. We're coming through. Coming through."
Within the heavy blackness, Loretta Leone sensed more than felt the movement out of her apartment and down the hall to the stairs.
Help me, she thought. Just help me. I don't want to die.
The bell announcing wake-up in Charity sounded at just after six.
Garrett Pike rolled off his cot and dressed. He could tell the day was going to be another scorcher. He studied the playmate on his calendar and decided, as he crossed off April 13, that the photo was a keeper.
Once, just once before he died, he would like to spend the night with a woman like that.
He left his room, which was on the floor above the men's barracks, took his clipboard off the wall, and began making his rounds, checking off each patient's name as he roused him and sent him toward the dining hall. One of the men, Dick, was clearly getting ill. He had been bathed in a feverish sweat the previous evening, but Dr. Barber had merely examined him and sent him back to bed. Now, his condition seemed worse.
Pike walked the man to the clinic and turned him over to Dr. Barber.
Then he returned to the barracks.