Maybe in Another Life (15 page)

I stare at the doors, willing them to open. They don’t. Everyone is staring. I can feel their eyes on me, but I refuse to look at anyone to confirm.

I see the driver start to turn around to find the source of the noise, but the doors open up, and I run off the bus. Once we are on the sidewalk, I grab Charlemagne out of the bag. Some of the people on the bus watch us through the window. The bus driver glares at me. But then the bus is off again, crawling down the streets of Los Angeles at a snail’s pace, while Charlemagne and I are standing free as birds, just a block from the animal hospital.

“We did it!” I say to her. “We fooled them all!”

She puts her head down on my shoulder and then reaches up and licks my cheek.

I put her down, her leash firmly in my hand, and we make our way toward the building and into the lobby.

There are dogs everywhere. It smells like a kennel in here. Why do cats and dogs have that same musky odor? Individually, they aren’t so bad, but the minute you get a group together, it’s . . . pungent.

“Hi,” I say to the receptionist.

“How can I help you?” she asks.

“I found a dog on the street last night, and I wanted to find out if she’s chipped.”

“OK,” she says. “We are a bit tied up at the moment, but sign in here, and I’ll see if we can get that done sooner rather than later.” She points me toward a clipboard. Under
Dog’s Name
, I put “Charlemagne,” and under
Pet Owner
I put my own name, even though her name’s probably not really Charlemagne and I’m not really her owner.

“Ma’am?” the receptionist calls to me.

“Yes?”

“No one will be able to help you until six,” she says.

“Six?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m sorry. We’ve had a few unexpected procedures. We’re backed up all afternoon. You’re welcome to take the dog home and come back.”

I think about putting Charlemagne back into the bag, getting onto the bus, and then doing it all over again this evening. I have no doubt that Charlemagne and I would put up a good fight, but eventually, the bus drivers of Los Angeles are going to be on to us.

“Can I leave her here? And meet the doctor here at six?” It makes me sad to think that she’d be here without me. But that’s sort of the point, right? I’m trying to find out who Charlemagne belongs to. Because she
doesn’t
belong to me.

The receptionist is already shaking her head. “I’m sorry. We can’t do that. People in your position often come and leave the dog, and then they don’t come back, and we end up having to put the dog in a shelter.”

“OK,” I say. “I get it.”

She whispers softly to me, “If you leave a large deposit, even a credit card, I can often persuade the vet techs to make room in the kennels. I mean, since we know you’ll be coming back.”

“You’re saying you want collateral?” I ask her, a joking tone to my voice.

She nods, very politely, demurely.

I pull out my wallet and take out my credit card. The
receptionist stands up and puts her hands out, ready to take Charlemagne, but I find her much harder to part with than my MasterCard.

“It’s OK,” the receptionist says to Charlemagne. “We’re gonna take good care of you for a few hours while Mommy runs some errands.”

“Oh,” I say. “Sorry. I’m not her . . . mommy.” The word is almost laughable, the thought that I am anyone’s, anything’s,
mommy
.

“Oh, I know,” she says. “But you’re her person at the moment, so . . .”

“Still,” I say, “I don’t want to confuse her.”

And then I pick up my wallet and walk out the front door without looking anyone in the eye, because that is the dumbest thing I’ve ever said. The problem is not that I don’t want to confuse the
dog
. The problem is that I don’t want to confuse
myself.

I walk outside and grab my phone. I look for car dealerships in the area. No sense in wasting time. There is a cluster of three dealerships just a mile and a half down the road. I start walking.

I’m going to cross one more thing off my list today.

Soon I might just be a functioning human being.

I
called Gabby right after my family left. I told her my dad said I should move to London.

She asked me how I felt about it, and I told her I wasn’t sure.

Even though I haven’t lived in the same place as Gabby for very long, I somehow can’t imagine living that far away from her again.

“You have a lot going on right now,” Gabby said. “Just try to get some sleep, and we can go over the pros and cons when you’re ready.”

When I put down the phone, I did exactly what she said. I fell asleep.

I woke up a little bit ago and looked at the clock: two a.m.

“You’re up,” Henry says as he walks into my room. “You were asleep earlier.”

“Snoring better or worse than Gabby was the other night?”

“Oh, worse,” he says. “Definitely worse.”

I laugh. “Well, can’t you people do something about that? Some sort of surgery?”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” he says, coming toward me. “You’ve been through enough, don’t you think?” He marks things down on my chart.

“How am I doing?” I ask.

He pops the chart back down and clicks his pen. “You’re
good. I think tomorrow they’ll put you in the wheelchair and get you mobile.”

“Wow!” I say. “Really?” How quickly in life you can go from taking walking for granted to one day being amazed that someone might let you sit in a wheelchair.

“Yeah,” he says. “So that’s exciting, right?”

“You bet your ass it is,” I say.

“Somebody bring you a pastry?” Henry says. His deep blue scrubs are a flattering color. I don’t mean that they specifically flatter him. I just mean I’ve noticed most of the nurses wear a sort of rose pink or light blue. But the navy blue he has is just much more attractive. If I were a nurse, I’d wear dark blue scrubs, sunup to sundown.

“Yeah,” I say. I can’t believe I forgot. I immediately grab the box. “My dad brought me a cinnamon roll.”

“Oh, man, my weak spot,” Henry says. “I don’t have much of a sweet tooth, but I love a good cinnamon roll.”

I am so eager to express my own love for cinnamon rolls that I stumble over my words. “That’s what . . . I am . . . you love? . . . Me, too.”

He laughs at me.

“I mean, I love cinnamon rolls. I have a cinnamon roll problem,” I say.

“No such thing,” he says.

Now that we are talking about it, I’m finding it impossible not to eat some of it right now. I open the box and pull off a piece. “You want some?” I ask.

“Oh, that’s OK,” Henry says.

“You sure? My dad got this from Primo’s. I’d argue it’s one of the best cinnamon rolls in all of Los Angeles.”

He puts his pen into his shirt pocket. “You know what? OK. I’d actually love a bite.”

I hand him the box. He picks off a small piece.

“Oh, come on,” I say. “Take a real piece.”

Henry laughs and takes a bigger piece. “I’m pretty sure this is How to Interact with Patients 101: Do Not Take Their Food.”

I laugh. “Nobody’s perfect.”

“No,” he says, chewing. “I suppose not.” And then he adds, “Damn, that’s good.”

“Right? I don’t want to brag, but I consider myself a cinnamon roll connoisseur.”

“I’m starting to believe it,” he says.

“Maybe I should start dropping hints to my visitors that I want more cinnamon rolls. I can probably get us a pretty good stash.”

“Tempting,” he says. “You feeling OK?”

The minute he says it, I remember who we really are, why we are really here, and I fall back down to earth just the littlest bit.

“Yeah,” I say. “I am. Each day feels a little bit better.”

“Think you’ll feel ready to get into the wheelchair tomorrow? It can be painful, moving around for the first time, being lifted, all of that. You up for it?”

“Are you kidding me? I’m up for anything.”

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s what I thought.”

He heads toward the door and then stops. “If you love cinnamon rolls as much as I do, then I’ll bet you also love churros. Have you had a churro?”

I give him an indignant look. “Are you kidding me? Have
I
had a churro? I’m from Los Angeles. I’ve had a churro.”

“Oh, well, excuse me . . . Sassypants.”

I start laughing. “Sassypants?”

He laughs, too. “I don’t know where that came from. It just popped out of my mouth. I’m as stunned as you are.”

I start laughing so hard that my eyes water. My whole body is convulsing. You realize when your body is broken just how much of it you use to laugh. But I can’t stop laughing. I don’t want to stop laughing.

“I guess it was a little weird of me to say,” he says.

“A little?” I say between breaths.

He laughs at himself with me.

And then, suddenly, there’s a shooting pain down my leg. It is sharp, and it is deep, and it is gut-wrenching. My laughter stops immediately. I cry out.

Henry rushes toward me.

The pain doesn’t stop. It hurts so badly I can’t breathe. I can’t talk. I look down at my feet and see that the toes on my right foot are clenched. I can’t unclench them.

“It’s OK, you’re OK,” he says. He moves toward my IV. “You’re gonna be OK in a second, I promise.” He comes back to me. He grabs my hand. He looks into my eyes. “Look at me,” he says. “C’mon, look at me. The pain is gonna go away in a second. You’re having a spasm. You just have to bear through it. It’s gonna be OK.”

I move my gaze to his face. I focus on him through the pain. I look into his eyes, and he stares into mine.

“You got this,” he says. “You got this.”

And then the pain begins to fade away.

My toes straighten.

My body relaxes.

I can breathe easily.

Henry moves his hands out of mine. He slides them up my arms to my shoulders. “You OK?” he says. “That had to hurt.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I’m OK.”

“It’s good we are going to get you up and moving soon. Your body needs to be up and about.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“You did great.”

“Thanks.”

“You gonna be OK? On your own?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I think so.”

“If it happens again, just hit the button, and I’ll be here.” He takes his hands off me. With one swift motion, so subtle I’m almost not sure it happened, he moves a fallen hair out of my face. “Get some rest. Tomorrow is going to be a big day.”

“OK,” I say.

He smiles and heads out the door. At the very last second, he pops his head back in. “You’re badass, you know that?”

I say, “You probably say that to all your patients,” and then when he leaves, I think,
What if he doesn’t? What if he only says that kind of stuff to me?

M
a’am,” the dealer says to me. We are sitting at his desk. I’ve already made my decision. “Are you sure you don’t want a
new
car? Something fun? Something a bit more . . . your style?”

I’m considering a used Toyota Camry. The dealer keeps trying to get me to look at this bright red Prius. Admittedly, I’d rather have the bright red Prius. There might have been a time in my life when I would have said “Screw it” and used all my money on the down payment for the Prius, forcing myself to figure out the rest when it came time. Because I love that red Prius.

But I’m trying to make new decisions so that they lead me to better places.

“The Camry’s fine,” I say. I already test-drove it. I’ve asked all the right questions. They want ninety-five hundred dollars for it. I tell him I’ll give him seventy-five hundred. We go back and forth. He gets me up to eight. He keeps going to his manager to get new negotiating numbers. Eventually, the manager comes over and whines about how little I am willing to pay for the car.

“If I sell it to you for less than eighty-five hundred, I won’t make any money off the deal,” he says. “You know, we need to make money. We can’t just be giving cars away.”

“OK,” I say. “I guess we can’t make this work.” I get up out of the chair and grab my purse.

“Sweetheart,” the manager says, “don’t be crazy.”

This is why Gabby has to keep talking about women’s rights and gender equality. It’s because of dipshits like this.

“Look, I told you I’d pay eight thousand even. Take it or leave it.”

Carl is an excellent negotiator. Really cutthroat. When I was a senior, Carl would take either Gabby or me to do all of his negotiating so we learned how to haggle. Mechanics, salesmen, plumbers, you name ’em, Carl made us negotiate prices with them directly. When Carl’s Jeep needed a new set of wheels, he stood out around the corner from the shop as I went in and tried to talk the guy down on his behalf. When I’d go back out to him to report the new price, Carl would shake his head and tell me I could do better. And I always did. I was especially proud when the tire guy threw in a free car detailing after my prodding. Gabby once got the guy repairing the hot-water heater to come down five hundred bucks. Carl and Tina took us out to Benihana that night to celebrate the victory.

Carl has always said that people who don’t haggle are suckers. And we aren’t suckers.

“I’m buying a car today. Doesn’t have to be from you,” I say to the manager.

The manager rolls his eyes. “All right, all right,” he says. “Eighty-one hundred, and it’s a deal.”

I shake his hand, and they start drawing up the paperwork. I put three thousand down and drive off the lot with a car. There goes most of my money. But it’s OK. Because I have a plan.

When I get far enough from the dealership, I pull over to the side of the road and start hitting my hands against the steering wheel, yelling into the air, trying to get out all the nervous energy that’s in me.

I’m doing this. I’m making a life for myself. I am
doing
this.

I call Carl at his office.

“Hello!” he says, his voice buttery and pleased to hear from me. “Tell me you’re taking the job.”

“I’m taking the job.”

“Outstanding. I’m going to put you on the phone with Joyce, our HR person here. She will talk to you about a start date, salary, benefits, all of that good stuff. If you don’t talk her up to at least forty-two, I’m going to be disappointed in you.”