I swallow one, then another. I should start packing, but my mother’s rumpled bed is more appealing. I crawl under the covers, wishing I had a beer, but I’m too tired to walk downstairs. The label said Take Until Completed. She didn’t, leaving six in the bottle. Maybe that was her fatal mistake. The causes of cancer are a mystery, that is, beyond the obvious things like cigarettes and charred meat and Three Mile Island. Maybe that innocent sore throat started a chain reaction that eventually consumed her body.
It could have been what killed her. That or a million other things. It doesn’t make much difference. All that’s left of her is her bed. And even here, it’s hard to find any trace of her. I’ve slept in this bed every night since my sister left and spent most of my days propped against the pillows. There’s no television in the bedroom, just a small clock radio still tuned to her favorite station. I listen to happy talk, armchair psychologists and financial advisors and brand-name chefs and celebrity interviewers more famous than the celebrities they interview. It’s all white noise filtering any intrusions from the world.
My mother would hardly know this bed anymore. I haven’t changed the sheets. I prefer body smells to fabric softener; they’re rich and warm, fecund like the good earth. Like the boxers I haven’t changed in days. No wonder my crotch is itching like hell. Scratching just makes it worse. I should be ashamed of myself. What would my mother think if she saw me wallowing in her bed in this condition?
But she’s not coming back. And if she could, she’d probably just pull the covers up to my shoulders and tell me to try to sleep. Or maybe she would haul me out by the ankles, yank me by the hair, deliver a swift kick to the ass, and tell me to shape up.
I kick aside the bedsheets and stick my hand in my boxers, lazily scratching my balls. A rash is spreading beyond my crotch, across my belly, over my chest, up to my head. I sit up in bed, pawing myself like a bipolar chimpanzee on a manic swing. A shower might help. The water is tepid, as cold as it ever gets in the dying days of a Southern summer, and relief lasts only while the water is running.
I turn off the water and reach for a towel. I’m red, a bright flaming scarlet. My body is a lunar landscape of angry hives. I drop the towel on the floor, barely recognizing the monster in the bathroom mirror. Huge welts creep across my face. My body is going haywire. Alarm bells are ringing inside my ears. No, it’s just the doorbell. No, it’s too shrill for the doorbell. Can’t be the doorbell. Only the Jehovah’s Witnesses come calling these days, trying to rescue my soul with copies of Watch-tower.
What the hell were those pills? They look harmless enough, sitting here on the sink. What are these fucking things? I pop the lid and flush them down the toilet. The whirlpool makes me dizzy. One little capsule clings to the porcelain bowl, defying me. I fill a glass with water and try to swallow, hoping to restore my body to a state of grace.
The phone is screeching again. The answering machine picks up and my sister begs me to answer. She sounds as if she’s crying. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. I’m all right. It’s nothing. She keeps calling my name. Andy. Andy. Andy? She can’t hear me answering.
Where’s the phone? Where’s the fucking phone? I weave and stumble toward the bed, trying to catch my breath. Aha! There you are, you naughty little glow-in-the-dark princess. My awkward foot kicks the receiver across the floor.
Are you there? Please, are you there?
Gina’s voice is tiny, tinny, muffled by the thick carpet.
I’m all right…all right, I want to tell her, but I can’t speak now, can’t waste the effort. It takes every bit of strength I have to breathe. I can only look at the phone and gasp and heave. My throat is collapsing; my lungs are screaming for oxygen. I want to tell her bye, bye, kiddo, sweet dreams, don’t let the bed bugs bite.
Go ahead and close your eyes, I think. Sleep tight. Don’t be afraid. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m scared, but not as much as I should be. Some part of me believes this is only a dream and I’ll wake before I stop breathing.
Fuck Jesus!
I feel strong arms pick me up and carry me down the stairs.
Call 911!
I hear another voice at the far end of the tunnel.
What you say?
Call fucking 911! This man ain’t breathing so good!
What?
911! Call now, motherfucker! This man gonna die!
But I don’t.
Hours later, I’m lying in an observation bed in the emergency department. The nurse says two gentlemen would like to visit. Jerome and Nate, Bekins Moving and Hauling, stand over me, smiling, basking in the warm glow of playing God. Their names are embroidered above their shirt pockets. Nate. Nathaniel.
Merry Christmas, Nathaniel. Was Santa good to you?
I try to thank them, but it’s too painful to speak. The breathing tube bruised my throat. My hands and thighs are tethered by lines and needles. Benadryl and steroids and adrenaline have worked their miracle and brought me back to life.
Take it easy, little buddy, Nate says, thought we’d lost you.
I shake my head and doze off, comforted by his voice.
“You’re a very lucky fellow,” the nurse says as she hands me my discharge instructions. I don’t disagree even though it’s been a long time since I would have chosen that word to describe myself.
So I check into a hotel, seeking room service and clean sheets until Nate and Ben can deliver my mother’s bed to Magnolia Towne Courte. I decline the key to the minibar, not completely trusting my ability to resist temptation. I call my sister, then Matt. I give them my room number and assure them I’m fine, that I just need to get some sleep.
Which is what I do for three days. Real sleep without pills or booze, relying only on my own circadian rhythm. I order cheeseburgers and fries and chocolate milk for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. When you’re paying top dollar, the staff accommodates your every need. I stare at the television between bouts of sleep. I start to feel better, stronger, almost content.
Anaphylactic shock didn’t transform me. Maybe it’s just that I’d sunk as low as I could go. Not that my little tale of woe was anything special, nothing for the record books. I’ll never experience the horrors and epiphanies of true addiction. A little heavy drinking and a few sour sexual liaisons and a chance encounter with an antibiotic with a four to five percent cross-reaction with penicillin are the sum and substance of the drama of my life.
I wish I could say that I’m seeking redemption through meditation and prayer. But the reality is I’m lying on the bed burping ground beef and onions and dozing while my Psychic Friends promise Great Revelations on the television screen.
Your loved ones are waiting to speak to you…
The Celebrity Spokesperson, all bright and shiny with red lacquer lips and shoe polish hair, speaks directly to the camera, sending a not-so-subliminal message to call the number crawling across the bottom of the screen. Apparently, my mother is beating down the fourth wall separating those who have passed and those of us still encumbered by mortal flesh and blood. And she has a message for me! All for the small investment of two dollars and fifty cents a minute.
Curiosity killed the cat and, after validating my card, a lazy voice thanks me for calling the Zodiac Hotline. The Celebrity Spokesperson, of course, is too busy with her sales pitch to channel my mother’s spirit herself. My minimum-wage clairvoyant sounds barely out of high school. Her questions are peppered with teenage slang.
So, um, like, your mom…like, when did she pass?
After twenty dollars of preparatory interrogation, my mother is ready to make her Grand Entrance. The message is simple and, though delivered in an unfamiliar voice, can only have come from her.
Get out of bed. Shower. Check out. Move on.
Good boy that I am, I obey.
Intervention