Behind me, Tonya spat, “If you don’t stop looking at that God-
Empty.
Everything went out of me in the breath that followed. Busted, sucking comfort from a little house on the prairie. I swung my legs around to the side of the bed. The vent was blowing hospital AC right in my face. The cold burned the wet lines on my cheeks.
Tonya moved toward me, looking like she regretted every step.
“Careful,” I told her. “I stink.”
“Yeah, you do.” She put her arms around me anyway. I felt her shaking her head, her cheek pressed to my scalp.
Again, it was impossible to turn away.
Jenny woke up around lunchtime. There was a bit of bedlam at first-thrashing, tubes coming undone, machines beeping like crazy, but it didn’t last long.
The nurse said we got off easy. “Usually we see some projectile vomiting when they come around.”
Possible sign my life was on the rebound?
Hold that thought.
We had a visit from the doctor making rounds. Tonya sat in while we heard that they would probably keep her one more night “to see what happened with the seizures.” Jenny accepted it all with big eyes and nodding; she didn’t start to cry until the woman got to the part about the social worker who would be visiting before Jenny could check out of the hospital.
“Why did you leave school yesterday?” the nice-lady doctor asked.
Jenny shot me a worried look and shrugged.
“Where did you get the medicine?”
“Found it.”
“Where?”
“Mommy’s medicine box?” Jenny’s eyes filled with tears.
My sister was spinning in her grave. I could feel the breeze.
“Tell me about why you took it, honey.”
“I just…” Jenny started off strong, as if there was a way she could explain, but her voice faded, “…thought they’d make me feel better. That’s all. Really,” she added for my benefit.
“This is very serious, Jenny,” the doctor said. “Everyone here is worried about you. That’s why we’re going to have the social worker come talk to you. We all need to understand what happened so we can make sure it won’t happen again.”
“It won’t. I swear,” Jenny pleaded.
“Don’t panic, kid.” I squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to go alone if you don’t want to. I’ll go with you.”
“You will?” Jenny’s voice sounded awful. She was choked up and the tubes had scratched her throat pretty good.
“If you want.”
“I think we ought to meet this social worker before there is any talking,” Tonya said, casting serious doubt on the title social worker. “All of us.”
“Certainly,” the nice-lady doctor replied.
“Good thinking,” I said.
Tonya gave a tight-lipped nod. Everybody was in agreement.
The rest of the day was busy. Tonya yelled at me about changing channels too much, while we took turns playing cards and reading to Jenny. I pretended to nap but couldn’t stop myself from checking out the competition’s news magazine shows.
I tried not to think about work. It was impossible. Employed or unemployed, the story rattled through my head.
A long time ago, I learned that truth isn’t relative. It’s quantum. The closer you get, the smaller and infinitely more complex the related elements become. The modern world lives in smaller and smaller segments. There’s Coke, Diet Coke, Caffeine Free, and Cherry. We added to G, PG, PG-13, R, NR and NC-17 with Gens X, Y and Z on the way. Television isn’t so different from life. It’s built from bits and pieces, strung together over time, and repeated on the endless reruns of the mind.
Except for the part about things making sense by the end.
Part of my problem is that I’ve gotten too good at seeing parts. Finding a way to tell the story without exploiting Rachel, without using Nicky Curzon’s off-the-record explanation for Tom’s arrest, without relying on a little salacious conjecture about all those porn magazines…it seemed impossible. Not to mention the fact that any story I produced might become fodder against Curzon’s re-election for sheriff, which would never stop me from reporting on the story, but might qualify as a speed bump.
Editing a story together is similar to taking a photo. Shadows determine form; the light source determines the shadows. I couldn’t figure out where to shine the light on this.
“Maybe I’ll go and see about some caffeine.”
“Bring me something.” Tonya waved at the breakfast tray.
“Me too,” Jenny agreed. Her mushy fruit sat abandoned, a spoon poking out from under a paper napkin shroud.
“Caffeine and ‘somethings’ all around. I’ll be back.”
I wandered the halls, people-watching and mulling. After twenty minutes or so, it appeared the cafeteria had lost itself. The hospital had some renovation project going on and all the maps were either wrong or led to dead- ends of orange mesh. I came out of an elevator, turned a corner and found myself in a hall facing a circle of women and men in Amish dress. Two medical types were talking with them in the waiting area.
I recognized one of the men. It was the guy who’d tromped through Jost’s kitchen in knee-high dairy boots ordering me to vamoose.
The nurse behind the counter saw me gawking. “They’re Amish,” she offered. “A friend of theirs was in a fire.”
It wasn’t easy to keep it to, “Really? That’s a bummer. Was he burned?”
“No,” she assured me with a kindly, vacant frown. “A little smoke inhalation is all. Can I help you find something?”
With an opening like that, how could I not ask? I gave her Jost’s name and she didn’t appear to make the connection. She checked a chart, directed me to his room and returned to her paperwork.
The sight line between Jost’s door and the waiting area where the other Amish were listening to the doctors was blocked by the privacy curtain surrounding the nurses’ station. He was under close observation. I knocked before I entered.
Old Mr. Jost was under the clear plastic covering of an oxygen tent. They had him in a hospital gown but the whiskers still set him apart.
I stood and watched him for a while, thinking of Jenny mostly. I had no plan to ask him questions. Nothing to say to the old fart, really. I think I just wanted to look at him one more time; like the accident off to the side of the road, reminding me to slow down, wear my seatbelt and quit flipping off the other drivers.
I wished I had my camera between us, but I forced myself to stand there and look through my own eyes.
He blinked awake. That didn’t bother me. But when his fingers flicked against the plastic, I jumped. He wanted me to lift the curtain.
“What?” I asked. I leaned over so my ear was right above his mouth.
“She’s all right.”
I thought about lying. “She’s with Grace Ott.”
