– Very helpful.
She runs a hand through what’s left of her red hair, dozens of strands coming loose, clinging to her fingers.
– Fuck. Fucking hell.
I look at the old lady on the other side of the tiny room, reading her
– Fucking, fuck, fuck. Hair. My goddamn hair.
– Babe.
– My hair, Joe.
– I know.
– Do I got to lose my hair?-They said it’ll grow back.
She shakes her hand over the edge of the bed, the strands of bright red floating free.
– Fuck them. They said the vinblastine would help. They said the mouth ulcers would stop after the first couple treatments. They said fewer than one in ten had constipation. They said my white count was plenty high to start the chemo. They said not to worry about the anemia, we’d just do more transfusions. They said I was a healthy girl and properly treated HIV didn’t have to become AIDS at all. Fuck them and what they say. They know shit.
She waves at the old lady.
– Hey, I look like I got no AIDS to you, lady? What’d they tell you? What line of shit they feed you before they started in?
The old lady has the magazine out of her lap and in front of her face, blocking Evie out; blocking out the bright purple tumors, the patchy hair, the graying teeth.
– Babe.
– What? Am I making a scene? Am I embarrassing you, Joe? Don’t want to be seen with me? All you gotta do is go.
I stand, bend and put my mouth against hers.
She kisses back for a moment, then moves away.
– Don’t.
I lay a fingertip on one of the sores that rim her mouth.
– Hurts?
– No. It’s just. It’s so gross. I’m so gross. I’m a fucking monster.
– Baby, you’re not even close.
And I kiss her again.
She coughs and I taste the bile from her empty stomach and the blood from the ulcers inside her lungs.
She pulls back again.
– Bowl. Bowl.
I get the plastic bowl and hold it in front of her and she heaves a couple times and nothing comes out.
– Fuck. Goddamn fuck.
I put the bowl aside.
– It’s cool, baby.
She turns from me.
– Bullshit. It’s not. It’s not cool. I’m sick. I’m so sick of this.
– You can take it, baby.
– Are you? I can take it? You have no fucking.
She rolls on her back, talks to the ceiling.
– Go away, Joe.
I don’t go away.
She looks at me.
– Goddamn it, if you can’t do something to help me, go away! You think this helps? Standing there, looking at me like that? You think I feel better about what’s happening, having your sorry ass here moping over me? Do something! Fucking do something!
I reach out to touch her.
She slaps my hand.
– Don’t touch me. You said you wanted to take care of me. Then fucking take care of me. Fucker! Fucker! What use are you? I’m sick. I’m fucking dying and you’re standing there. You, you. Always doing things. Your fucking job. Your job, and you can’t help me. All you can do is put more blood in me for this fucking disease to live in. You don’t help. You.
She’s sitting up now, her pajama top slipping off her boney shoulder, showing the pale skin and freckles.
I stand there.
She yanks on the hose in her arm.
– Fuck this. This can’t make me better. Nothing can make me better. You can’t. You can’t.
She throws the dripping needle at me.
– Go do something! Save me, goddamn it! Fucking save me!
The nurse comes in, sees the mess, shakes her head, gets to work.
Evie flops back into the pillows.
– See, this bitch, at least she can do something. She cleans up after me. She brings me crap food I can’t eat. If I could take a shit, she’d wipe my ass for me.
The nurse glances my way, shoots her eyes toward the door.
I look at Evie’s feet, sticking from beneath the sheet.
– I’ll come by tomorrow.
She has her hands over her face.
– God, I want to be alone. Please let me be alone. Leave me alone. Don’t ask me for anything. I don’t want to do it anymore. I don’t want to think about anyone else anymore. I’m no good at it. Leave me alone, Joe. Let me die alone. Go away. Go away.
The nurse faces me, places a hand on my arm, points at the door.
I think about taking her head between my hands and twisting her neck and spitting in her face as I kill her.
The old lady peeks from behind her magazine as I leave, shaking her head.
On the street I fire up a Lucky and look at the people walking around: on their way home after a late workday, on their way back out because it’s Friday night, whatever. Normal stuff. Stuff Evie can’t do these days.
I think about killing them all.
It wouldn’t change things, not for my girl up there on the HIV ward of Beth Israel. But it would make me feel better. A dead body for every blood-corrupting cell invader in her would just about even things out with the world as far as I’m concerned.
A sense of proportion not being something I have much of a grip on.
A Harley grumbles up to the curb and the leather-coated rider touches the brim of his top hat.
– Joe.
I watch a guy walk past with his girl on his arm, both of them giggling at some stupid shit they think is cute. I skip asking what’s so fucking funny and go talk to Christian instead.
– What’s up?
He pulls the aviator goggles from his eyes and lets them hang from his neck.
– Something needs looking at below Houston.
– Off my beat.
Christian takes one of the smokes I offer him. I pop open my Zippo and hold out the flame.
– Not for long, I hear.
– What’s that mean?
