October 17, 2023
It burns me that I have to talk to you this way. It’s insane that I’m here, and no, the irony is not lost on me.
Still, I want you to know how I am, because I know you’re worried, and I hope you’ll write back since the telephone is a “privilege.” Whatever the hell that means.
The first few days have been OK, even if this place looks like something Edgar Allan Poe would have hired a depressed architect to design. They actually didn’t even paint the drywall. Like…who does that? At least put some primer on it, for the love of Pete. It’s the color of faded soot, and I hate it. I’m convinced that the light fixtures were deemed “too institutional” for horror movies and discarded by Hollywood, only to be bought up by these fine folks at a discount. Or perhaps Sylvania just has a not-available-to-the-public line of bulbs engineered for depression, ennui, and existential crises. “Fever-Dream Fluorescents,” maybe.
My room is fine, I suppose. Sometimes sunlight works its way through the tiny window, and I’m sure I’ll only need Vitamin D supplements for the rest of my life or so.
I wish the window was bigger.
The bed is the best part, a high-end Sealy. The cool and inviting thousand-count sheets are luxurious, better than mine at home even. I guess they want to encourage sleep, which doesn’t make any sense to me because we’re only allowed eight hours of it. Sure, technically there is “free time” from 10am-11am and 2pm-3pm, but who takes a one-hour nap?
The Activities Director is hot, and when I’m done here, I might ask her out. I can’t do it now. After all, one does not ask out a woman ten years his senior without wearing his lab coat or at least Armani. Definitely not threadbare pajamas whose standout feature is the third stripe left of the buttons that has a little waviness to it, like there was a ridiculously brief earthquake under the loom.
But I ramble.
Yesterday we played Operation, which of course, I killed at. Marny almost tied my perfect score, but she trembled just a little too much with the femur. Then again, pretty sure she was using meth before she came here. People like that shouldn’t be performing operations, anyway.
How are you? Did you get the trophy yet? I’m still ridiculously proud just to be related to you. It’s not every woman who wins Firefighter of the Year, you know. The baby’s parents are so thankful that you gave him a second chance at life.
Tell me about Dad’s reaction when he gets home. Just set the award on the mantle and don’t say anything.
I’m going to go eat lunch now. Bologna today, I think, and you know how much I love bologna sandwiches. I don’t even take the crust off anymore. I liked the way you did that when I was little, and I know it’s a cliché, but even though I actually like them that way, I know I should act my age.
Write soon, but hopefully by the time you do, I’ll already be out of here. The paperwork should get fixed any day now. They can’t keep me long, obviously.
After all, I’m not crazy!
Love always,
Nic
October 20, 2023
It’s getting kind of ridiculous at this point. Alan said this was a recovery ward, so I figured I could just show them that I don’t need any more recovering. The man is cool as a cucumber. Relaxed. Hooray!
Somewhere, a box had been checked, a name entered. Nic Ellison, crazy. Which was ludicrous. I was starting to suspect that someone had either transposed a digit in a social security number or else this was my colleagues’ idea of a particularly cruel joke. It was actually on them, though. The veal piccata was excellent, and I was patient enough to wait until someone corrected the error.
Honestly, though, it’s equal parts what I expected and not. TV does a respectable job of portraying psych wards in most categories, but the minutiae are never right. For example, the orderlies are never big, scary, imposing Black men. Or if they are, that half of the orderly corps is on vacation. It’s been mostly Janice, Toki, and Steve. The IRS would call them Caucasian, Pacific Islander, and Other–Not Hispanic.
Janice is my favorite because she always calls me “doctor.” Toki’s looks for me are somewhere between psycho serial killer and Ted Bundy, but when she talks, it’s so wispy and soft, like her voice and her facial expressions were made in different factories.
And then there’s Steve. The guy that just gets me. “I know, man. It’s nuts, er, it’s a whole thing.” He pivoted from “nuts” like I would be offended or something. “Look, I would totally sneak you out if I could, get you back to everything, but I have to have this job, you know? They’d can me if I broke the rules.” I did know. I appreciated that he was willing to at least consider it.
The weirdest part is that I did this to myself. No, I don’t mean that I asked to be “committed” or whatever they’re calling it now. (Yes, I should know the correct term. I did a psych rotation—it was required—but I didn’t really pay attention. Pediatrics has always been my thing.) But when Alan walked up to me and asked me to do him a favor, who was I to decline? It was a professional courtesy, doctor to doctor. If he thought I needed some time to unwind after the incident, so be it.
I’ve talked to the psychiatrist three times now. An hour a day, every day. His skin is the color of ash, but his eyes smolder with a knowing spark. He wants to know why I’m here, which always amuses me, like Um, I don’t know, Stan. You’re the mental health professional. Why don’t you tell me? He never does. Worse, when I ask him how long until I leave, he says things like “We’ll see” or “I’m not sure yet” or “Are you less than your mother?” or my personal pet peeve “That depends on you, Nic.”
How could an error in an Excel file buried somewhere on a hospital server be dependent on me? I prefer Google Sheets anyway. The worst part is that I’m convinced now, more than ever, that this is just a paperwork error, and it will stay on my record. Sure, I’m out soon. The Application for Emergency Admission expires after 72 hours—though I’m sure Alan didn’t go that far; he asked, after all—and we’ve got to be coming close to that. I haven’t looked at a clock in a while, come to think of it, there aren’t any, but I’m certain I’ve had three breakfasts. Certain because it’s the only meal that, inexplicably, is horrendous.
I’ve pictured the giant toaster in the kitchen that does an entire box of Eggos all at once. The kitchen lady with a net over her head and another over her beard, wondering where she’d dropped the ball to end up working in the kitchen of West Vandalia Psychiatric Hospital & Emporium. She pulls them out of the toaster, burning her fingers every time as if the temperature would change. Then she slaps some margarine or something that I’m sure is just one molecule away from being a polymer on top, drizzles some imitation maple syrup, and plates them. Her baby cries from the corner of the kitchen because she can’t save for a babysitter.
It was after the third breakfast that I walked in protest to the exit and pulled on the door, not surprised that it didn’t open. I’d spent three days here, and some of the people were crazy, so of course they couldn’t just leave it unlocked. Toki had stared at me from the other side, her front-facing side-eye more suspicious than usual. Janice was in the day room with us and walked over after I’d pulled a few times. “Sorry, doc. They have to keep it locked.”
“I get it. Most of the people around here,” I leaned in so only she could hear me, “are a hot mess. Can you punch the code in?” I nodded to the keypad on the wall.
“Wish I could, I really do, but rules are rules, you know, doc?”
“I guess I don’t know, Janice. What rule is preventing it?”
“Jenna will be here in about a half-hour. Maybe she can tell you more.” She’d just given me that smile that said, “Whatcha gonna do?” and walked back over to Marny to help her with the thousand-piece puzzle of a wildfire.
It was clear that Janice was stalling me, but what was a man to do? I couldn’t break reinforced glass with my bare hands, and besides, she did say “doctor.” Guess I’ll just have to wait until the mix-up is resolved and hope the kitchen lady’s baby grows up healthy.
I haven’t heard from you yet, which is surprising. After three days, I figured you’d have dropped off a letter. Anyway, what did Dad say about the award? Was he surprised? Better question: were you surprised about his? I saw on the news how he rescued an entire squad when they were pinned down in Bagram. I’m really proud of him, and more than a little happy that he wasn’t hurt himself! I can’t stand to see suffering.
Having a war hero and a civilian hero in your family humbles you a little, but it also makes you proud to carry the tradition.
If only I had managed to save Ben.
I miss you. Please write soon, but by the time you do, I’ll be home.
Love always,
Nic
October 24th, 2023
It’s been a week now. Can you believe it? I still haven’t gotten anything back, but I guess you’ve just been busy. I hope you get a chance to write soon. I need to hear from you, or I might actually start needing to be here! (I’m kidding. I know you have a lot on your plate.)
There was a fire alarm yesterday, and they had to take all the residents outside. Good thing, because I was starting to get nauseous. It was nice to feel the sun on my skin, and the nearly frozen grass tickling my feet around the sandals was glorious.
As soon as we cleared the building, Marny made a run for it. Keening like a seal who swallowed a coach’s whistle, she ignited her engines and went flying across the lawn toward the entry gate. Janice and Toki took off after her while the assembled crowd of crazies and I hooted and hollered, encouraging the jailbreak. Why she’d run—and why they were running after her—was a complete mystery to me, since the place was surrounded by a wall. Marny was a runner, apparently, but she certainly wasn’t going to hurdle over ten feet of brick.
Anyway, the police showed up late this morning to talk to me. I was sitting in my room during my morning free time, reviewing the bones of the hand. Scaphoid, Lunate, Triquetrum, Pisiform, Trapezium, Trapezoid, Capitate, Hamate. It was easy to remember, thanks to the mnemonic we’d all learned in med school. “Sally left the party to take Cathy home.” There was a dirtier version that most people used, but it was too distasteful for me and I won’t repeat it. If you really want to know, Google it.
Toki knocked on my door and leaned inside. “Visitors” was all she said. In came, according to the introductions, Detectives Bowman and Hawthorne. He (Bowman) was at least fifty-five, wearing a pair of wrinkled chinos and a white button down, neatly tucked. He looked like the kind of guy that used a poof in the shower. She (Hawthorne) was a completely different story. Twenty-nine at best, soft brown hair falling past her shoulders, a pencil skirt and a forest green blouse. I figured if they didn’t arrest me and also if the Activities Director turned me down, I might ask her out. She had a warm aura.
Bowman leaned on the desk while Hawthorne walked right up in front of me. The distinct note of Head & Shoulders burned my nostrils and mixed with an overwhelming whiff of no bullshit. Maybe I’d have to reconsider the date.
Detective Bowman (“Call me Rich”) started, explaining that they were investigating the death of a 16-year-old boy. Apparently it happened at my practice, which I thought odd, having not heard about it. They wanted to know if I’d be willing to discuss it with them. I told them they must have the wrong witness because I didn’t even understand what they were talking about.
Hawthorne (“And what should I call you?” “Detective, asshole.”) leaned in and explained that they were not going to play any games because it was a kid. Bowman nodded menacingly to back her up. I have to tell you, I was scared. I still am. They seemed like they were on a mission, and that mission was to screw me over. Hawthorne told me she would love to see me “in the fucking chair, frying” and Bowman just kept leaning on the desk like it was OK for her to intimidate me. He even nodded a little.
I’d sat down on my bed at that point, moving to the corner to get away from her unless she was willing to sit down with me. I hoped she wasn’t, and when Bowman levered himself up off the desk, walking closer, Hawthorne sank back and took his place, like they were connected by a series of ropes and pulleys. He stood off a little way, put a kind smile on his face. They were actually going to “good cop, bad cop” me. I was honored.
“Here’s the thing,” he starts. “The kid was my cousin’s son, and yeah, I’m doing my job, but this is more than just a case for me, Nic. His mother is a wreck. She hasn’t slept more than an hour at a time since it all went down. So, can’t you just help us out? Tell us what you remember so we can wrap it up and give my family closure?” I told him that I was sorry for his loss, but the truth didn’t change just because of who the victim was.
Bowman’s face fell, and the pulleys shifted. Him back to the desk, her back to me. She must have had some extra rope, though, because she didn’t stop until she’d gotten to the bed and sat down, leaning in close enough for me to smell her cinnamon gum and bad attitude.
“Cut the crap, Nic. Your anesthetist told us you froze in the middle of the surgical timeout after his name and DOB. Rich and I are going to get a conviction, and we’re going to get the kid’s family justice, and we’re gonna watch you fry when they flip the switch. I suggest you help because it will go much easier for you.” She paused and smiled at me. Her grin made my breath twist.
“After all, how do you think you ended up here? Dr. Alan Parsons asked you to do him a favor? Guess who asked him to do her a favor? If you ever want to get out of here, you’re going to do the right thing and tell us what Dr. Benjamin did. Otherwise, maybe I check you out of here and take you to an open field. Slice you into pieces so small that they’re not even sure what species they’ve found.”
“You can’t say stuff like that. It violates my rights.” I gulped, trying to project confidence that I wasn’t sure I’d ever had.
“Yeah?! Well, you can’t do stuff like you did. It violated his rights. Besides, there are no cameras. Just you, me, and the big lug there.” She threw a thumb over her shoulder but continued staring at me. “HIPAA laws, you know. Can’t record crazy people while they’re in their rooms.”
I finally broke, and I hate to admit it. She’d convinced me that she was a threat. The good detective had abandoned any shred of common decency because she knew she could get away with it. That made me angrier than I’d ever been, but not angry enough to die. “Dr. Benjamin, you say? What do you want to know?” I pretended to know who this mystery doctor was.
Hawthorne grinned enough to break her face as she stepped off the bed, smiling like she’d won. She almost did.
“Hey, doctor. Time for lunch,” Janice said from the doorway. I’d never been happier to see her.
They left then, the Gestapo. I was dismayed on multiple levels. For one thing, obviously, I had no idea who Dr. Benjamin was or what he’d done. For another, cops were heroes just like you and Dad, and I was having trouble accepting the fact that there were some out there who tarnished the badge like that. Yeah, I always knew, like when Capt. Torkelson had tried to make your brave actions his own, but I figured he was the rare exception and not actually the rule. My world has been shaken, and I need it to make sense again.
Please, please, please, write back or stop by to visit. They’ve told me that I can have visitors. One per day, one hour max, but that’s all I need. You always did know how to lift my spirits. Let’s talk soon.
Love,
Nic
October 25th, 2023
You should know that I’m hurt.
You haven’t written back, and you haven’t visited. I’m sure there is a good reason, and I still love you. I just wanted to be honest with you.
My day started with another shrink session. Despite the fact that he never answers any of my questions, I’ve come to enjoy this hour. It gets me out of my scorching room and the charred-wall common area and the crazy people burning with questions. Marny is almost catatonic now. She was mostly present on the day of her runner, but she has started to space out more and more each day. This morning she was rocking in her chair, intoning “Ben Ben Ben Ben Ben.”
“Here’s the thing, though, Nic. You need to stop focusing on Marny and focus more on you.” The shrink’s face was striped by the sun coming through the faux-wood blinds, a study in conflagration-shadow-conflagration-shadow over and over. It created a chilling effect but would have also made a splendid piece of art. The rest of his office is almost as welcoming as mine. A carpet that must be six inches thick, and the blond wood, marble-topped desk, and luxuriously creamy walls made it feel like a space to relax. Floor lamps pouring out an indirect orange glued the image together.
I was about to tell him that I hadn’t been focusing on Marny when the alarm went off. I sighed as I stood. I knew the drill. Made my way back to my room, shut the door, and waited for the snick of the automatic lock. It was probably the third time since I’d been here, and each time had ended up being a staff member that thought lockdown was the answer to everything. Maybe Greg had said no to his meds again.
“What did you tell the cops, Nic?”
There was a guy in my room. Plain. Pure vanilla. Not tall, not short, not fat, not thin. He could have been “Suburban dad number seven” on a casting sheet.
“I didn’t do a lot of talking. Mostly, they offered to burn me at the stake. By the way, who the hell are you?”
“I’m the Teacher.” His voice was a placid lake, pure mountain blue calm. I was sure he would follow up with an explanation like a normal person, but he didn’t. Just sat on the desk and stared at me and blinking be damned, thank you.
“Well, I’m not sure which your subject is, professor, but as I said, that conversation was more about them threatening and me listening. They wanted to know something about a Dr. Benjamin. I told them I didn’t even know who that was.”
“That wasn’t very smart, Nic. You need to come to terms with the truth.” The corners of his mouth turned up. I’ve never seen such an aggressively unsettling smile. “If you keep lying, you’ll stay broken. That could be a problem for me.”
He stood suddenly as the klaxons wheezed out their last breath and the door lock clicked open.
“I don’t want to have a problem with you,” I said as he walked to the door. I waited for him to rain down death as he passed, but I wasn’t that lucky.
Just before he walked out, he said, “Same, my friend. Same. Wouldn’t want to have a problem with your sister, either.” He shot me a friendly smile. “So get your shit together.”
Let me be the first to tell you that I had no idea what had just happened, but there was a distinct feeling that “time of my life” was not a phrase I would be using anytime soon.
Be careful, OK? I know Dad is home for now and he’ll take care of you, but just keep your head on a swivel. If anything happened to you, I’d lose it. Damn kids and their fragile respiratory systems.
Steve leaned his head into my room. “All clear, Nic.”
“Who was the guy?” I asked him.
He bunched up his face in confusion. “What guy?”
“Just walked out of my room? Gray pants, heathered shirt? He had to walk right past you going down the hall.”
Steve looked me up and down, and a grin glowed on his face. “Very funny, Nic.” I looked down at my outfit. Gray pants. Heathered shirt.
How did the Teacher know what I’d be wearing?
Like I said, please take care of yourself. Teachers are unqualified heroes. They are shaping the minds of tomorrow and the minds of today. I’ve had so many good ones, as you well know. But this one…well, with apologies to Bon Jovi, he gives school a bad name.
Please write. Visit. Call. Whatever. I’m drowning and I need an anchor.
Love,
Nic
October 29th, 2023
Do you remember when we went to the lake? You told me to use 50 “UV rays will get you” but I wanted 15 because “It’s going to be cloudy all day.” We settled on 35, I think. I didn’t know that the sun also bounced off of the water, so the burning rays were actually coming from two directions. Luckily, I only got the sunburn that reddens your skin, makes people notice, and itches after a few days. There was no pain. I like to call it “half-degree” sunburn. Why isn’t there an ordinal designation for decimal numbers? Probably because “point five-th degree” sounds like something out of the English as a Ninth Language Manual of Style.
They’re upgrading the piano today. Steve promised to play Fur Elise on the new one. I hear it will be a baby grand, but that seems ostentatiously out of character for all the dread this place evokes. Beethoven’s most famous Bagatelle was so obviously full of existential pain that it is only properly played on a marginal instrument, preferably one that has been tuned in the key of E-flat-minor, the saddest of all keys.
I’ve learned the Activities Director is named Andrea, which is not at all confusing. Maybe I’m less in love with her than I am with the idea of her being here and guiding me toward happiness. I ought to call her “Dopamandrea.” What do you think of that?
She smiled at me the other day. “You have applesauce on your chin, Nic.” She’d wiped it with a napkin and then served that kind laugh on me. “If you’re not careful, we’ll have to put you in the pediatric ward.” I’d laughed and tried not to let my feelings for her burn out loud. I had to play it cool.
But then, I was letting myself be blinded by irrelevant facts. The last time that happened, the blindness became death, and so I swore I’d never make that mistake again. “I’m not a kid, Andrea.” I stood up with an attitude and walked over to Marny, holding court on the other side of the common room.
She was in a wheelchair now, 110% out of it, which is a ridiculous measurement that I chided myself for making. 100% is total, complete, full. You can’t be completely out of it and then some. There’s no vegetable plus flavor. Catatonic and a yard. You’re either out of it or you’re not, and watching someone completely disconnected from reality was very sad.
Steve was standing behind the wheelchair just to the left of her, and he watched as I sat down at the table across from her. “e4,” I whispered to her, moving the pawn up two squares. I waited for her to respond with c5, because she had an unnatural love affair with the long-since-refuted Sicilian, but she just sat there.
I waited. Maybe she would come back. Maybe it was all in my head. Maybe she was already on move nineteen, and I was trying to decide if I was violent enough for the Smith-Morra gambit. I wasn’t, of course—I abhorred violence, bloodshed, and pineapple on pizza—but she didn’t know that.
Eventually, Marny’s head slid back, back, back, ever so slowly. She stopped when she was looking right at Steve, imploring him with her eyes. He finally leaned down, put his ear to her face as she whispered. He leaned down and whispered back to her, apparently verifying. Marny moves her head back down until she is looking at me, holds my gaze for a terrifying twenty seconds, and then looks back to nod at Steve. He reaches down and plays b6.
I probably should have seen it coming. I’ll admit that to you. The falling capnography was right there on the monitor. All I had to do was look. But I was too focused on the scar. The women-sized-Nomex-glove shaped scar on his lower right abdomen; a scarred x-marks-the-spot saying “appendix is here!” But what good is an appendix if your lungs are shot?
I don’t want to burn any bridges, but can you at least give me a “message received” flare or something? I am crushed at your lack of response, although…now I’m starting to wonder if they’re even sending these letters out. Am I writing to nobody?
Love,
Nic
October 30th, 2023
This place is changing. They finally painted the walls, and it was the color of a deep scarlet. I am not a fan, though of course they weren’t going to ask me. I guess I’m just glad I don’t have to count the number of Gypsum Panel — 1/2” Regular — Do Not Install Outdoors stamps anymore. I think I was up to thirty. The lights got upgraded, too. No more Sylvania Schizophrenia Specials. Now they’re modern. The kind with the gobs and gobs of glass and a filament that you can see the shape of even though you really shouldn’t be able to because it was too bright and a wire that wraps around the hanger because now mental illness is chic.
They’d even planted trees outside and replaced the brick wall with distressed wrought iron. It was only a matter of time before a Starbucks opened in the lobby, ironic hipsters with distressed jeans serving Grande Psycho Americanos. Extra soy milk and no foam, please.
I could still taste the Eggo plastic from breakfast when the good detectives returned. Hawthorne pulled out a chair and sat down, put a smile on her face. It was a genuine smile and she succeeded in scaring me.
“Hey, Nic. We just had a few follow-up questions for you. Could you find it in your heart to talk with us for a few minutes? I know I might have come off a little harsh last time, but you know how it is when you’re trying to fix something that will change the course of your career, right? What do you say, buddy? Up for helping me score that gold badge?”
If I was going to have a chance with these two, she wasn’t going to give it. I looked at Bowman. “I was really sorry to hear about the kid. I hope your family hasn’t let the flame of his memory go out.”
“Thank you.” He nodded at me. “That means a lot. And I’m sure there was no intent.” He grabbed a chair from the day room, dragged it in, and sat next to Hawthorne. It was nice that they’d been civil. The old “good cop/bad cop/next time we visit both good cops” routine.
“Intent?” I asked?
“Yeah, Nic. He means he doesn’t think the murder was intentional.” The Teacher stood in the doorway and a hard look came across the cops’ faces as he spoke. They didn’t look at him or interrupt.
I was starting to understand the setup. Hawthorne and Bowman had come by the last time to soften me up, rile me. The Teacher—or should I say Supervising Detective—came in to mop up, counting on me still being hot from the abuse, desperately looking for anyone to walk me off the bridge.
“I’m not even sure which murder they’re talking about.” I told him.
“Aw, geez, Nic. I thought we were past this. Dr. Benjamin murdered that kid. It wasn’t premeditated. We know that. There were…circumstances. We’re on your side.” Hawthorne had taken on the air of a concerned mother, with which I am considerably impressed because she was barely old enough to be a mother.
“Stop lying to them. Stop lying to everyone. This is so much easier if you don’t.” The detectives nodded just before the Teacher spoke, as if they knew what he was going to say. Premeditated agreement. Should have seen that coming, but now that they’d messed up the script, I knew it was all a game.
I smiled. Slowly. Gently. Confidently. They were done for. The game was afoot, and I was Sherlock Conan Doyle—wait…yeah, that’s right—and they were not about to fool me. It was time to pull out my magnifying glass and my gun and expose their—
“Nic. Buddy. Don’t you understand that we’re all here to help you? Everyone is on your side. We want what is best for you. Why won’t you cooperate?” My shrink was standing next to the Teacher now, because of course he was. I was going to have to fire him. I saw the remote in his hand and had a flash of understanding. I thought the walls were closing in metaphorically, but they were closing in un-metaphorically.
A scare tactic. They’d have to do better. I was ready to sleep in a coffin if it came to that. A 4×8 room was practically an East Village luxury walkup. Fire escapes and all.
I took a deep breath and centered myself. “Listen, doc, I am cooperating. Ever since I’ve been here, all I’ve done is follow the rules. Ever since school. You’ve been there. You know. They say train. Because when everything goes to shit, your training is what changes outcomes, right? Emergencies are just things we plan for. No big deal. Respiration falling? Roof collapsing? No fucking problem. The training makes it easy. Now, if you will all excuse me—” I am looking at all three of them in the eye so they don’t miss my point “—I have places to be.”
I blew past the cops. The Teacher offered zero resistance, and the psychiatrist just put up his hands and backed away. The heat coming off my neck flooded into the day room, engulfing everyone.
Except Marny. She just sat in that chair, looking at me as if I was the most pitiful person on the planet. I was heading for the door, planned to test the fist-vs-reinforced glass theory, but then I’d sat. Marny’s eyes pulled me into the chair.
I guess I’m not a hero.
Nic
November 2, 2023
Yesterday was All Saints’ Day. So great a cloud of witnesses, but all of them are gone. No cops. No shrink. No Teacher.
No Marny.
Just me with my thoughts.
Steve played “Moonlight Sonata” after dinner. He’s a fan of Beethoven, it seems. As am I. Deaf people have it easy. They don’t have to hear familial wails or inevitable pronouncements. They just smile and make the piano sound like a carnival.
I’m writing to tell you this is my last letter. I can’t stand the thought of writing and not reading in return. Probably you were going to disappoint Nic anyway when you do write. The pain burns, but I’ll get over it.
When they finally do let me out of this place, O2 is falling, doctor, I will come see you. I know you’re dying to see me, and I promise you will, eventually. I wonder what dad will say. The good news is that they are letting me out tomorrow.
I even heard the psychiatrist say it. “He will go tomorrow.” There was something else about “a transfer” and “an ambulance” but I think that just means I’m going to be escorted home. Probably with a nurse to follow me around, make sure I’m fit again for the world I will be living in. It was an amazing time.
Like, how could the kid’s name even be Ben? It was a miracle the surgery wasn’t at St. Benjamin’s Medical Center, though I don’t know if there even is a St. Benjamin. It’s probably him if there was, but I’ve read through the “Lives of the Saints” and I don’t recall the son of my right hand being present. Not that he was my son.
Marny has improved markedly these last few days. She’s started talking again, and I hear she’s coming to terms with the death. She keeps smiling at me and telling me everything is going to be OK. As if she has any idea what kind of micro-stressors are in my life. Respiratory arrest. Bagging. She definitely meant well.
I didn’t mean to. I can’t imagine being the mother in that situation. Or the father. You can, I’m sure, but I don’t want you to. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Patient is bradycardic. BP 80 systolic. The fact is that I am not to blame, because I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I’d have understood if we went there and he didn’t come back but that is not what had happened.
My voice is raw. I am staring at the scar. The nurse is shaking my arm, begging me to be in the moment. I think she’s screaming. Her mouth is wide open and I can see the invectives emanating from her, but.
I’ll be curious to see how the in-home care plays out. I don’t need it, of course, but they have to check all their boxes before they slink away, leaving me to be an integral and anonymous part of the world. Nic Ellison Benjamin, not crazy.
Do you want us to push Atropine? Why were they asking me? I wasn’t the responsible one here.
Yes. 1mg. Prepare for external pacing. Is the tube still in? The nurse puts her scope on the right lung, nods. Moves to the left lung. Shakes. Mainstem? I yelled at the anesthetist. Fix it! I mean, that’s what I should have yelled. All those things.
But after “Atropine” I just stepped back and laughed at the indignity of it all. He was supposed to be dead in the first place. She wasn’t.
But she was. He wasn’t.
And yet.
The veal piccata here is excellent.
(This is from Nic. I think he forgot to sign it. Thanks, Steve.)
November 3rd, 2023
“We’re transferring him.” Aimee appreciated that Dr. Parsons was trying to say it gently, even if his gruff, clinical bravado seemed like a bark. He was probably used to dealing with family more invested and less objective than Aimee, but she understood. Part of her objectivity was seeing the lack of it in other people who were expecting a fight. She wasn’t going to give one.
“The paperwork went through this morning. Trenton will be a much better facility for him. They have people who specialize in this.” Alan paused as Aimee gave him a disbelieving look. “Yes, even in this.”
“Does he know?” Aimee braced herself.
“No, not really.” Alan took on a sad air. The kind of countenance a professional gets when a colleague stains the profession. The pity was lacking, if play-acted. “He understands the facts. He can parrot them, but…comprehension? No. It’s just not there.”
“How long?” She braced herself for the answer.
“No way to tell. The case is complicated. Could be months, years,” he paused and simulated compassion, “or forever.”
Aimee flinched, pretended she hadn’t.
“And Ben’s mom?” Aimee looked past the luxurious cream of the walls to the green grass and green trees that were fighting the brown of fall with everything they had. They weren’t winning.
“Better. The psychotic episode seems to be resolved. She’s talking again and her husband is coming to pick her up tomorrow.”
“I’m glad there is some closure there, at least. Nic was very profuse about Marny in his letters.”
“I suspect he knew who she was, even if he would never admit it out loud.” Alan Parson bombasted the pronouncement, as if his expert opinion was a salving balm for an aggrieved Aimee.
Aimee looked through the window again, clenching and unclenching her fist below the chair. It was so unfair. “I have to pick up this shift. We need the money.” Her mom was always practical. Ever since Dad left, she’d been working double-time, overtime, extra time, and all the time. Far be it from Andrea Benjamin to let her kids want for anything.
If only she’d known it was going to be her last shift. She might have hugged them tighter.
Aimee always imagined that if the fire in Journal Square had just started a few minutes after 7:41 am, Mom would have come home and made them Eggos. Nic loved the way she made them—toaster, under the broiler for ninety seconds, natural maple syrup, and a pat of butter.
But Mom was gone. And so was Nic.
Aimee took a deep breath of real life and smiled. It was going to be OK, probably.
“That reminds me…he probably wrote about it.” Dr. Parsons punched a button on his desk. An orderly walked in.
“Good day, Miss Benjamin. Here’s the latest stack.” Steve handed her a mass of envelopes. She flipped one over.
A. Benjamin
505 Jefferson St.
Hoboken, NJ 07030
Aimee stuffed them in her purse and left the depressing place. Drove north on Route 9. Just north of 54th St she made a right and wound her way through the trees and barely flat asphalt. Landed halfway between 58th and 54th, though it was only grass and trees as far as she could see. She reached into her purse and dropped them on the granite. “Hi, Mom.”
Andrea Benjamin
1974-2007
TFD Firefighter of the Year, 2007
Beloved Wife and Mother