Carry Me Like Water (30 page)

He heard the doorbell ring. He wondered who it could be—didn’t they know he was dying? “I’m dying,” he wanted to yell, “Go
away.” Why were they still coming? To see—to see the show, to see the magic man do his disappearing act? “Look, I am walking on a wire, and I am going to fall gracefully, so gracefully that you won’t even notice when
I
hit the ground.” He felt his mind leaving his body. He tried to focus on the color of walls in the room. If he could only name the color, his mind would come back. He focused his eyes on the things in the room—his saints, his candle burning in the room. He could see them despite the fact that everything else was blurry and dark. He imagined himself to be lying in a coffin. “Someone is at the door.
I
can reach it,
I
can reach it.
I
can make myself open the door, I can make myself speak.” He found the knob and pulled. He stared out into the hallway of the apartment. He saw nothing. He felt the air in front of him with his hand. “Is someone there?”

“Yes. You must be Joaquin.”

The voice was soft and familiar. A woman, he thought, the voice belongs to a woman. He looked out into the void and said nothing.

“Joaquin?” the voice asked.

“Help me.
I
can’t seem to see. Can you help me?”

The woman took him around the waist. “Let’s get you back to bed,” she said.

Her arms were almost as strong as Jacob’s. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Let’s just get you back to bed first, shall we?”

“Did someone send you—did Jake send you?”

She sensed the panic in his voice. “Dr. Michaelsen said I might drop in and see you, I was your day nurse at St. Mary’s hospital.”

“Tom, Tom sent you?” He seemed relieved, more focused at the sound of his doctor’s name.

She helped him into his bed.

“I remember your voice. I remember your voice,” he said. “You said Jake and
I
were beautiful—is that what you said?”

“Yes.”

“I remember your voice—a good voice.”

She looked around the room, everything so neat and orderly. “Is Jake at work?”

“Yes. He gets home around five-thirty.”

Joaquin looked so thin and hungry. “Would you like some tea? Something to eat?” She wanted to make him strong.

“Crackers,” he said, “Crackers and orange juice, Tom sent you?”

“Yes.”

“I remember. Your name’s Lizzie.”

She smiled at him though she knew he could not see her. His mind seemed better. Yes, he was better. She grabbed his arm. “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “I’m your friend.”

He nodded. “I need to use the bathroom. Will you help me?”

She took his hand and led him slowly into the bathroom. She helped sit him down on the toilet. “I’m so much worse,” he said.

She combed his hair with her fingers. “I’ll wait outside. Let me know when you’re ready.” She walked back into Joaquin’s room. She picked up a photograph of Joaquin and Jake that was sitting on the dresser. She traced the frame with her finger and stared at their images, Joaquin with his dark eyes and perfect skin and perfect teeth and Jake with his fine blond hair and eyes that burned a hole in your skin as he stared at you—even in a photograph. She was not surprised they had met, not surprised they were lovers, and she was not surprised to be standing in this room. She looked up and saw Joaquin standing in the doorway between the bathroom and the bedroom. He hung on to the wall as if it were his life. “Are you there?”

“I’m here,” she said. “I’m just looking at a picture of you and your lover.”

“Yes. It was taken at the beach. Tom took it.”

“It’s a wonderful photograph. I didn’t know Tom was such a good photographer.”

He placed his head against the doorway. “Tom wanted to be an artist. Sometimes, I think he’s sorry he became a doctor. He wanted to please his father.” His voice was so light, almost as fine as powdered sugar, “Are you holding it in your hands?”

“How much can you see?”

“Not very much. Everything’s a little fuzzy, kind of dark. A little bit. I can see a little bit—but I can’t see what you look like, but you’re wearing a white blouse.” He paused, then seemed to go away
from her. “And a skin with flowers. My father could have never understood all this.”

She walked over to him and placed her hand on his cheek. “Well, fathers are sometimes a little limited—they can’t help it. Maybe it’s our fault. Maybe we shouldn’t try to please them.”

He leaned against her as they walked toward the bed. When he felt the blankets, his hands trembled. She helped him slip under the blankets.

“Do you love yours?”

“My father?”

He nodded.

“No.”

“Me neither. Well, he’s dead. But if he were alive, I wouldn’t love him.”

“It’s OK,” she said.

“I shouldn’t hate him—he’s dead.”

She sat on the edge of the bed and placed her hand on his forehead. “Forgive yourself,” she whispered. “It’s you that matters now.”

“I don’t know you.” he whispered.

“You know me well enough.”

“It’s easy to forgive everyone but yourself.”

“It’s possible.”

“You really think so?”

She squeezed his arm. “Yes. Still want the crackers?”

“No. I want to sleep.”

His breathing was labored. She reached over and took his wrist. “I’m going to take your pulse.”

He laughed. “I’m dead.”

“Funny man.”

She looked at her watch and counted. She took his hand when she finished. “I think I’ll have Tom come have a look at you. You know, most doctors don’t make many house visits—you’re lucky.”

“He was in love with me once.”

“Well, it must’ve ended well.”

“It never started.” He breathed in deeply, then coughed. His coughing continued for several minutes. She handed him a glass of
water with a straw. When he stopped, he sipped on the water. “He never told me. I just knew. Nothing ever happened. Sometimes, he looked at me—and
I
knew what he was thinking. I don’t think he ever thought Jake was good enough for me. Don’t tell him I said that. He’s a good man, such a good man. I always wanted to make them like each other.”

She listened to his voice. He was sick but could not keep himself from caring for the living. They always did that, she thought. All the men she’d seen on the ward—they were always taking care of the living—even when the living didn’t give a damn. It made her angry. When would it be their turn to be cared for, to be loved? He groaned quietly as if he were trying to embrace his physical pain as he would a lover.

“Are you taking anything?”

“No. Tylenol.”

“That’s all?”

“I’m dying naturally.” He smiled.

“A poster child for a drug-free America, huh?”

He laughed. “Bad joke, really bad.” He coughed again. She waited for him to continue coughing, but he stopped. “I’m beginning to look like a figure from el Dia de los Muertos.” He seemed to be falling asleep as he spoke—too tired to finish his sentence.

Lizzie sat and watched him. “Gringo, corazón. Corazón.” He kept whispering those words over and over. She knew what the words meant. When he was finally asleep, she walked into the living room and looked around for the phone. She reached into her purse, pulled out a phone book and looked for Tom Michaelsen’s phone number. The phone was sitting on top of a baby grand piano. She wondered who played it. As she reached for the phone, she noticed a picture of a little boy in a gold frame. There was something very familiar about the face of that child. She picked it up and stared at it. “I know this man.” She shook her head. “That’s impossible.” She finally put the picture back where it had been. The boy was six or seven and his smile was sad. She was certain it was not a childhood picture of Joaquin, and she was equally certain it was not his lover’s image—Jake was too blond. She had seem him often in the hospital, and he could not have had dark hair as a child, though there was
an unmistakable resemblance. “I know this man. I know
I
know this man.” She shook her head. She picked up the phone and dialed Tom Michaelsen’s office. “Yes, this is Elizabeth Edwards from St. Mary’s Hospital, and I’d like to speak to Dr. Michaeisen—it’s about one of his patients.” She waited for several minutes, then heard Tom’s voice.

“What can
I
do for you, Lizzie?”

“I’m over at Joaquin Villanueva’s house—”

“What the hell are you doing there?”

“Nurses can make house calls, too, Tom.”

“I didn’t know you knew him. He’s never mentioned you.”

“I don’t know him—not really.”

“You just decided to drop in on him, huh? Just looked up his address and stopped in to see a strange man you didn’t even know?”

“I had a dream, Tom.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Lizzie?”

“I’ll tell you some other time. Look, I think you should drop by this evening and take a look at Joaquin.”

“Does he look worse?”

“Well, I don’t know what you mean by worse—but he shouldn’t be left alone anymore. Can he afford a nurse, Tom?”

“No way in hell.”

“And
I
suppose his lover needs to keep working?”

“Same as the rest of the world, Lizzie. He needs his insurance.”

“The world sucks, Tom.”

Tom said nothing on the other end. “Yeah,” he said. “So what else is new?”

“Look,
I
take it they have a few friends?”

“Yeah, some.”

“How about if we make a shift schedule?”

“A what?”

“You know—people who can take shifts watching him.”

“What are you—a one-woman hospice?”

“People shouldn’t be alone.”

Tom laughed.

“Don’t laugh, Tom,
I
’m very serious.”

“I’m not laughing, Lizzie.”

“Yes you are. I can hear you.”

“Well, I’m only laughing because I’m happy.”

“You’re happy?”

“Yes, you’re the angel these guys needed.”

“An angel, huh? Just wait until they get my bill.”

Tom laughed again.

She remembered working with him at St. Mary’s when she had first started on the ward. She had loved him for the way he touched his patients—and for his laugh. He was the only doctor she truly respected.

“Can you wait there until Jake gets home?” he asked.

“Sure. I don’t have any plans.”

“You’re a saint.”

She laughed. “An angel and a saint? A saint who likes to wear long earrings and have affairs with men who are bad for her.”

“But never at work—which reminds me—why aren’t you at work?”

“I’m on vacation.”

“So you visit dying men on your vacation?”

“Well, I’m not going back—so I’m not in a hurry about anything.”

“You’re not going back to St. Mary’s?”

“Don’t say anything, Tom. I haven’t told them yet.”

“We have to have a long talk, Elizabeth Edwards.”

“Yes, we do, Tom Michaeisen. In the meantime, I’ll wait for Mr. Villanueva’s lover to come home. I’m sure he’ll be surprised to find me here.”

“Tell him I’ll drop by this evening.”

“Bring something for his pain.”

“Whose?” he asked.

She had no answer. She hung up the phone and stared at the picture of the little boy, trying to remember who he was, Lizzie looked at her watch: It was nearly five o’clock. She walked into the kitchen—it was clean and sunny and looked as though it belonged to someone who liked to cook. Jake didn’t look like the type who’d spend his time in kitchens. She was certain the kitchen was Joaquin’s territory. She opened drawers and cabinets and found everything in its place. She put on a pot of coffee. She found herself with
the urge to cook. “I shouldn’t do this in a stranger’s home,” she said out loud. She couldn’t resist the kitchen. She had always wanted a room just like this one. She wanted to give herself to the room. She opened each cabinet door. She saw pasta shells and a bag of sun-dried tomatoes in the cupboard. She eyed some canned tomatoes, cans of soup, olive oil. On the kitchen counter she spotted a wooden bowl full of onions and garlic. She decided to make dinner. “I’m nesting again. I must be getting ready to have my period.” She shook her head and laughed. “The body does such funny things to you.” She found a large skillet just perfect for making a red garlic sauce. She poured in olive oil and diced some garlic. When the oil was hot, she added the garlic and sun-dried tomatoes. She let it fry for a minute, then turned off the stove. She opened a can of whole tomatoes and threw it in the pan. She smiled as she worked. Within minutes, she had added fresh basil, oregano, and a touch of cinnamon. Soon, the entire apartment smelled of oregano, tomato, and garlic. She heard the front door open, then heard Jake’s deep voice.

“Who’s here?”

“In the kitchen,” she yelled.

He walked into the room and looked at her. “Do I know you? Who the hell are you? And why are you cooking in my kitchen?”

Lizzie looked at him and almost winced. She was completely embarrassed, and somehow the words in her mind stumbled into each other but would not fall out of her. She had no real explanation. She was surprised he didn’t recognize her—but why should he? She was only a nurse in a hospital. Her heart hurt. She felt stupid for feeling so hurt. She looked at him and realized she should say something—anything. “I’m sorry,” she said awkwardly. “I got carried away. You have such a lovely kitchen—and I—I’d been wondering how Joaquin, how he was—how he was doing—and I just found myself at your door—it’s strange, I know, but it’s as simple as that.” She could feel her face turning red.

“Are you a friend of his?”

She looked at him. “Well, no, not really. Don’t you remember me?”

He looked at her strangely. “No.” He looked at her more closely, a look of recognition moving over him. “You’re the nurse.”

“Yes—I’m the nurse.”

“Lizzie,” he said. “Your name’s Lizzie.” He smiled, then nodded. “And you like to flirt with gay men because it’s safe.”

“So you remember me?” She began to feel more at ease, less like an intruder.

“I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.” His initial sense of violation disappeared from his voice. His words became calm, even friendly. “But that still doesn’t explain what the hell you’re doing in my kitchen.”