Sing

Christmas and it was Jingle Bells all over again. In my life, I’d be okay if I never get defibrillated again. Odds were not in my favor.

I had a hard time staying awake for long. Exhaustion from lack of oxygen and a body worn out working for nothing, pumping blood that went down a tube, sucking up more blood from a bag. There was medicine too. Bags of it, going into my hand. And a bag of blood that kept getting replaced like a pot of coffee.

I remember one of them saying was that I was a lucky man. I had no idea what he was talking about, but I thought it didn’t have a damn thing to do with my health. He was blond. Nordic looking, and I asked him what he meant, but he just went on with another battery of questions that seemed like every other battery of questions every other white lab coat had asked either me, or the person next to them. If I had a dime for every doctor that walked in and talked about me like I wasn’t there, I could buy and sell myself. The non-entity of me. The skin bag of pain and discomfort. I didn’t feel like I owned my own body any more. I felt like a piece of meat being kept alive until some day when something happened. Some miracle. Or some news.

“I’m not here to make you upset,” I felt lucid when Margie said that, my brain snapping to attention at the thought that there was something I should, but shouldn’t be, upset about.

“Oh, good. You’re here to tap dance.”

“I love that you have the energy to joke, but not give a shit about your condition.”

“I give a shit.” The effort it took to speak was monumental, but contact with someone wearing real clothes and not wielding a needle was too welcome to not answer in full. “Guy just came and told me I’m in a world of trouble. There’s just nothing I can do about it.”

“They called us into a meeting. This must be what it’s about. What did they say?”

“Let them do their jobs. I can’t...” I drifted off. I couldn’t repeat what the guy with the silver hair had said. Dr. Emerson. Like the poet.

As if understanding she put her hand on my shoulder.

“There’s something I took care of while you were down,” she said. “It’s going to create drama.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, you have no problem with it?”

“Okay, tell me what it is.”

“Monica’s broke. She hasn’t been going to work because she’s been hanging around Sequoia Hospital like she works here.”

“Fuck.” My life spinning out of control was bad enough, but I was taking Monica with me.

“I’m giving her money and saying it’s from you. You’re going to back me up.”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Margie?” I raised my hand a little and she took it, coming closer to me so she could hear.

“What?”

“You’re my new favorite. Thank you.”

“I’m keeping tabs on every dime, because you’re going to get better, you little fuck. I don’t know how, but this isn’t how it ends. Do you understand me? It’s not ending like this.”

CHAPTER 18.

MONICA

The closer I got to Jonathan’s family, the more I understood where he came from. His ability to laugh through anger and tears, the happy face he put on over his worries, the Oscar-worthy show of confidence, came from his mother. The deft manipulations of people and situations, the sadism, the raw hunger, the social charm, came from his father. The passion and protectiveness were learned through his sisters.

Margie had handed me five thousand dollars in an envelope and told me if I didn’t take it she was going to tell Jonathan and it would upset him enough to give him another heart attack. She was exaggerating and being cartoonish, but I got the point. He’d arranged the money, and refusing it would cause him stress.

“I told you not to tell him,” I’d said, holding on to a shred of pride even as I clutched the envelope.

“I ignored you. Tough.”

“I hate this.”

“Take it up with God.”

“Well, thank you,” I said. “I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate it.”

I needed the money. Badly. After spending a morning on the phone, I found I had long odds of saving the house. I could rescue my mother’s finances by arranging a short sale, but I’d still have to move, and one of the banks was adamant about the current resident vacating the premises. I could have waited for an eviction, and then fought it, but I had too many balls in the air as it was. I needed to find a place to live, a place to store my stuff. I needed to rent a truck, pay a security deposit and first month’s rent. Five thousand would just about cut it.

And now I had other business to attend to. Accepting five grand in cash from my lover’s sister was something I never thought I’d do. Today would be a day of firsts.

I dialed Eddie’s cell phone. He picked up. Oh, the privilege of being me. Six months ago he wouldn’t have returned a voice mail from me, much less taken a call on the second ring.

“What’s happening, Princess?” he answered through a wave of ambient noise. I didn’t like the new nickname. It was too close in concept to “flake.”

“I can’t do a session,” I said. “Jonathan, he’s...it’s bad. I need to be here.”

“How bad?” The ambient noise disappeared as if he’d closed a window.

“Something went wrong. He’s bleeding. He needs a transplant. Maybe. Probably?”

“What?”

“If you have a heart lying around in the next few days...”

“Days?”

My head was screwed up. I was a monster. I’d thought Eddie cared that I was cancelling my recording session, but Jonathan was his friend, and he was dying, why the hell would he care about my fucking EP?

“You should come and see him,” I said.

“Fuck.”

“Are you all right? I’m sorry, I’ve been dealing with this for days. I should have broken it to you better.”

He didn’t answer right away. I thought I’d lost the connection, then he finally spoke up. “When I banged up my dad’s Maz, he took me all over LA to get it fixed. We got it home before my parents got back from Maui. By like, minutes. He drove like such a dick.”

I sniffed, “Don’t eulogize yet, please.”

I had the sudden, physical need to see Jonathan immediately, to stop wasting time in a cold stairway when I could be taking up space with him.

I pushed through the stair doors into the hall.

“Sorry, I...” Eddie caught himself. “Tell him he’s an asshole for me. All right?”

“Sure thing.”

The elevator dinged, and I blocked traffic by standing there, looking at my phone, wondering why I didn’t give a shit about a blown opportunity.

“Monica,” came a voice in the crowd. I turned to the source.

“Jessica.”

“I’d like to speak with you.”

“Sure.”

We stepped away, into a corner by a six foot tall potted plant that looked too fake to be real, or too real to be fake.

“What?” I said.

She raised her eyebrows. “You’ve got no business being sharp with me.”

“Thanks for letting me know my business.”

“I didn’t come here to fight with you. I came to see him.”